MISS  MAITLAND 
PRIVATE  SECRETARY 


BOOKS  BY  GERALDINE  BONNER 

Miss  Maitland,  Private  Secretary 
Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

The  Girl  at  Central 
The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 

D.    APPLETON   &    COMPANY 

Publishers  Ncw  York 


Rising  into  the  white  wash  of  moonlight  came  Suzanne 

[Page  45] 


MISS  MAITLAND 
PRIVATE  SECRETARY 


BY 
GERALDINE  BONNER 

AUTHOR  or  "THE  EMIGRANT  TRAIL,"  "THE  GIRL  AT  CENTRAL. 

"TREASURH  AKO  TROUBLE  THEREWITH, "  ETC. 


II  LD8TRATF.D  B7 

A.  I.  KELLER 


D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK  LONDON 

1919 


COPYRIGHT,  1919,  BY 

D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 


COPTBIOHT    1918,    1919,    BY   THB    CUBTIS   PUBLISHING   COMPANY 


FEINTED   IN    THB    UNITED    STATES    OT    AMERICA 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.     THE  PARTING  OF  THE  WAYS 1 

II.  Miss  MAITLAND  GETS  A  LETTER       .      .      .17 

III.  ANOTHER  LETTER  AND  WHAT  FOLLOWED  IT     28 

IV.  THE  CIGAR  BAND 38 

V.     ROBBERY  IN  HIGH  PLACES 46 

VI.     POOR  MR.  JANNEY! 55 

VII.     CONCERNING  DETECTIVES 68 

VIII.     MOLLY'S  STORY 83 

IX.  GOOD  HUNTING  IN  BERKELEY     ....      96 

X.     MOLLY'S  STORY 107 

XL     FERGUSON'S  IDEA 115 

XII.  THE  MAN  WHO  WOULDN'T  TELL  .      .      .130 

XIII.     MOLLY'S  STORY 140 

XIV.  A  CHAPTER  ABOUT  BAD  TEMPERS    .      .      .154 

XV.  WHAT  HAPPENED  ON  FRIDAY     .      .      .      .162 

XVI.     MOLLY'S  STORY 170 

XVII.  Miss  MAITLAND  IN  A  NEW  LIGHT    .      .      .181 

XVIII.  THE  HOUSE  IN  GAYLE  STREET  .      .      .      .193 

XIX.     MOLLY'S  STORY 208 

XX.     MOLLY'S  STORY 220 

XXL     SIGNED  "  CLANSMEN  " 237 

XXII.     SUZANNE  FINDS  A  FRIEND 250 

v 


2134288 


Contents 

OHAPTRR 

XXIII.  MOLLY'S  STORY    .... 

XXIV.  CARDS  ON  THE  TABLE 
XXV.  MOLLY'S-  STORY    .... 

XXVI.  THE  COUNTER  PLOT  .      .      . 

XXVII.  NIGHT  ON  THE  CRESSON  PIKE 

XXVIII.  THE  MAN  IN  THE  BOAT   .      . 

XXIX.  Miss  MAITLAND  EXPLAINS    . 

XXX.  MOLLY'S  STORY    . 


PAG* 

26-i 


.  273 

.  283 

.  298 

.  307 

.  316 

.  327 

.  344. 


VI 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

FACING 
PAGE 

Rising  into  the  white   wash   of  moonlight  came   Su- 
zanne           Frontispiece 

You've  done  one  thing  to  me  that  you  are  going  to  re- 
gret      .      .      .        7 

His  face  was  ludicrous  in  its  enraged  enmity     .      .      .   202 

Ferguson  saw  him  in  silhouette,  a  large,  humped  body 

with  bent  head  .   313 


MISS  MAITLAND 
PRIVATE  SECRETARY 

CHAPTER  I 

THE    PAHTING    OF    THE    WAYS 

CHAPMAN    PRICE    was    leaving    Grasslands. 
Events   had  been   rapidly   advancing  to   that 
point  for  the  last  three  months,  slowly  advanc- 
ing for  the  last  three  years.     Everybody   who   knew 
the  Prices  and  the  Janneys  said  it  was  inevitable,  and 
people  who  didn't  know  them  but  read  about  them  in 
the  "  society  papers  "  could  give  quite  glibly  the  rea- 
sons why  Mrs.  Chapman  Price  was  going  to  separate 
from  her  husband. 

His  friends  said  it  was  her  fault ;  Suzanne  Price  was 
enough  to  drive  any  man  away  from  her  —  selfish,  ex- 
acting, bad  tempered,  a  spoiled  child  of  wealth.  Chap- 
pie had  been  a  first-rate  fellow  when  he  married  her 
and  she'd  nagged  and  tormented  him  past  bearing. 
Her  friends  had  a  different  story ;  Chapman  Price  was 
no  good,  had  neglected  her,  was  an  idler  and  a  spend- 
thrift. Hadn't  the  Janneys  set  him  up  in  business  over 

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Miss  Mcdtland  Private  Secretary 

and  over  and  found  it  hopeless?  What  he  had  wanted 
was  her  money,  and  people  had  told  her  so ;  her  mother 
had  begged  her  to  give  him  up,  but  she  would  have  him 
and  learned  her  lesson,  poor  girl !  Those  in  the  Janney 
circle  said  there  would  have  been  a  divorce  long  before 
if  it  hadn't  been  for  the  child.  She  had  held  them  to- 
gether, kept  them  in  a  sort  of  hostile,  embattled  part- 
nership for  years.  And  then,  finally,  that  link  broke* 
and  Chapman  Price  had  to  go. 

There  had  been  a  last  conclave  in  the  library  that 
morning,  Mrs.  Janney  presiding.  Then  they  sepa- 
rated, silent  and  gloomy  —  a  household  of  eight  years, 
even  an  uncongenial  one,  isn't  broken  up  without  the 
sense  of  finality  weighing  on  its  members.  Chapman 
had  gone  to  his  rooms  and  flung  orders  at  his  valet  to 
pack  up,  and  Suzanne  had  gone  to  hers,  thrown  her- 
self on  the  sofa,  and  sniffed  salts  with  her  eyes  shut. 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Janney  repaired  to  the  wide  shaded  bal- 
cony and  there  talked  it  over  in  low  tones.  They  were 
immensely  relieved  that  it  was  at  last  settled,  though 
of  course  there  would  be  the  unpleasantness  of  a  divorce 
and  the  attending  gossip.  Mr.  Janney  hated  gossip, 
but  his  wife,  who  had  risen  from  a  Pittsburg  suburb  to 
her  present  proud  eminence,  was  too  battle-scarred  a 
veteran  to  mind  a  little  thing  like  that. 

As  they  talked,  their  eyes  wandered  over  a  delightful 
prospect.     First  a  strip  of  velvet  lawn,  then  a  terrace 


The  Parting  of  the  Ways 


and  balustraded  walk,  and  beyond  that  the  enameled 
brilliance  of  long  gardens  where  flowers  grew  in  masses, 
thick  borders,  and  delicate  spatterings,  bright  against 
the  green.  Back  of  the  gardens  were  more  lawns, 
shaven  close  and  dappled  with  tree  shadows,  then  woods 
—  Mrs.  Janney's  far  acres  —  on  this  fine  morning  all 
shimmering  and  astir  with  a  light,  salt-tinged  breeze. 
Grasslands  was  on  the  northern  side  of  Long  Island, 
only  half  a  mile  from  the  Sound  through  the  seclusion 
of  its  own  woods. 

It  was  quite  a  show  place,  the  house  a  great,  rambling, 
brown  building  with  slanting,  shingled  roofs  and  a  flank- 
ing rim  of  balconies.  Behind  it  the  sun  struck  fire  from 
the  glass  of  long  greenhouses,  and  the  tops  of  garages, 
stables  and  out-buildings  rose  above  concealing  shrub- 
beries and  trellises  draped  with  the  pink  mantle  of  the 
rambler.  Mrs.  Janney  had  bought  it  after  her  position 
was  assured,  paying  a  price  that  made  all  Long  Island 
real  estate  men  glad  at  heart. 

Sitting  in  a  wicker  chair,  a  bag  of  knitting  hanging 
from  its  arm,  she  looked  the  proper  head  for  such  an 
establishment.  She  was  fifty-four,  large  —  increasing 
stoutness  was  one  of  her  minor  trials  —  and  was  still  a 
handsome  woman  who  "  took  care  of  herself."  Her 
morning  dress  of  white  embroidered  muslin  had  been 
made  by  an  artist.  Her  gray  hair,  creased  by  a  "  per- 
manent wave,"  was  artfully  disposed  to  show  the  fine 

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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 


shape  of  her  head  and  conceal  the  necessary  switch. 
She  was  too  naturally  endowed  with  good  taste  to  indi- 
cate her  wealth  by  vulgar  display,  and  her  hands 
showed  few  rings ;  the  modest  brooch  of  amethysts  fast- 
ening the  neck  of  her  bodice  was  her  sole  ornament. 
And  this  was  all  the  more  commendable,  as  Mrs.  Janney 
had  wonderful  jewels  of  which  she  was  very  proud. 

Five  years  before,  she  had  married  Samuel  Van  Zile 
Janney,  who  now  sat  opposite  her  clothed  in  white  flan- 
nels and  looking  distressed.  He  was  a  small,  thin, 
elderly  man,  with  a  pointed  gray  beard  and  a  general 
air  of  cool,  dry  finish.  No  one  had  ever  thought  old 
Sam  Janney  would  marry  again.  He  had  lost  his  wife 
ages  ago  and  had  been  a  sort  of  historic  landmark  for 
the  last  twenty  years,  living  desolatety  at  his  club  and 
knowing  everybody  who  was  worth  while.  Of  course  he 
had  family,  endless  family,  and  thought  a  lot  of  it  and 
all  that  sort  of  thing.  So  his  marriage  to  the  Pitts- 
burg  widow  came  as  a  shock,  and  then  his  world  said: 
"  Oh,  well,  the  old  chap  wants  a  home  and  he's  going 
to  get  it  —  a  choice  of  homes  —  the  house  on  upper 
Fifth  Avenue,  the  place  at  Palm  Beach  and  Grass- 
lands." 

It  had  been  a  very  happy  marriage,  for  Sam  Janney 
with  his  traditions  and  his  conventions  was  a  person  of 
infinite  tact,  and  he  loved  and  admired  his  wife.  The 
one  matter  upon  which  they  ever  disagreed  was  Suzanne. 

4 


The  Parting  of  the  Ways 


She  had  been  foolishly  indulged,  her  caprices  and  ex- 
travagances were  maddening,  her  manners  on  occasions 
extremely  bad.  Mr.  Janney,  who  had  beautiful  man- 
ners of  his  own,  deplored  it,  also  the  amount  of  money 
her  mother  allowed  her;  for  the  fortune  was  all  Mrs. 
Janney's,  Suzanne  having  been  left  dependent  on  her 
bounty. 

His  wife,  who  had  managed  everything  eise  so  well, 
resented  these  criticisms  on  what  should  have  been  the 
completest  example  of  her  competence.  She  also  re- 
sented them  because  she  knew  they  were  true.  With 
all  her  cleverness  and  all  her  capability  she  had  not 
succeeded  with  her  daughter.  The  girl  had  got  beyond 
her ;  the  unfortunate  marriage  with  Chapman  Price  had 
been  the  climax  of  a  youth  of  willfulness  and  insubordi- 
nation. Suzanne's  affairs,  Suzanne's  future,  Suzanne 
herself  were  subjects  that  husband  and  wife  avoided, 
except,  as  in  the  present  instance,  when  they  were  the 
only  subjects  in  both  their  minds. 

Presently  their  low-toned  murmurings  were  inter- 
rupted by  the  appearance  of  Dixon,  the  butler,  an- 
nouncing lunch. 

"  Mrs.  Price,"  he  said,  "  will  not  be  down  —  she  has 
a  headache." 

Mrs.  Janney  rose,  looking  at  the  man.  He  had  been 
in  her  service  for  years,  was  one  of  the  first  outward 
and  visible  signs  of  her  growth  in  affluence.  She  was 

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Maitland  Private  Secretary 

•••^•^^•^^••^^•^•^^^^^^••^•••'•^^•^^"'^'^^^^^^^^^^^^'^^^^^^^J'^'^** 

sure  that  he  knew  what  had  happened,  but  her  face  was 
unrevealing  as  a  mask,  as  she  said: 

"  See  that  she  gets  something.  Will  Mr.  Price  take 
his  lunch  upstairs?  " 

"No,  Madam,"  returned  the  man  quietly,  -"  Mr. 
Price  is  coming  down." 

It  was  a  ghastly  meal  —  three  of  them  eating  sump- 
tuous food,  waited  on  by  two  men  hardly  less  silent  than 
they  were.  It  wouldn't  have  been  so  unbearable  if 
Bebita,  Suzanne's  daughter,  had  been  there  to  lift  the 
curse  off  it  with  her  artless  chatter,  or  Esther  Mait- 
land,  the  social  secretary,  who  had  acquired  a  habit  of 
talking  with  Mr.  Janney  when  the  rest  of  the  family 
were  held  in  the  dumbness  of  wrath.  But  Bebita  was 
spending  the  morning  with  a  little  chum  and  Miss  Mait- 
land was  lunching  with  a  friend  in  the  village. 

Chapman  Price,  as  if  anxious  to  show  how  little  he 
cared,  ate  everything  that  was  passed,  and  prolonged 
the  misery  by  second  helpings.  Mrs.  Janney  could  have 
beaten  him,  she  was  so  angry.  Once  she  glanced  at  him 
and  met  his  eyes,  insolently  defiant,  and  as  full  of  hos- 
tility as  her  own.  They  were  vital  eyes,  dark  and  bold, 
and  were  set  in  a  handsome  face.  At  the  time  of  his 
marriage  he  had  been  known  as  "  Beauty  Price  "  and 
it  was  his  good  looks  which  had  caught  the  capricious 
fancy  of  Suzanne.  In  the  eight  years  since  then  they 
had  suffered,  the  firmly  modeled  contours  had  grown 

6 


"  You've  done  one  thing  to  me  that  you're  going  to  regret  — " 


The  Parting  of  the  Ways 


thin  and  hard,  the  mouth  had  set  in  an  ugly  line,  the 
brows  had  creased  by  a  frown  of  sulky  resentment. 
But  he  was  still  a  noticeable  figure,  six  feet,  lean  and 
agile,  with  a  skin  as  brown  as  a  nut  and  a  crown  of 
black  hair  brushed  to  a  glossy  smoothness.  Many 
women  continued  to  describe  Chapman  Price  as  "  a 
perfect  Adonis." 

When  they  rose  from  the  table  he  stood  aside  to  let 
his  parents-in-law  pass  out  before  him.  They  brushed 
by,  feeling  exceedingly  uncomfortable  and  wanting  to 
get  away  as  quickly  as  their  dignity  would  permit. 
They  dreaded  a  last  flare-up  of  his  temper,  notoriously 
violent  and  uncontrolled,  one  of  the  attributes  that  had 
made  him  so  unacceptable.  In  the  hall  at  the  stair 
foot  they  half  turned  to  him,  swept  him  with  cold 
looks  and  were  mumbling  vague  sounds  that  might  have 
been  dismissal  or  farewell,  when  he  suddenly  raised  his 
voice  in  a  loud,  combative  note: 

"  Oh,  don't  bother  to  be  polite.  There's  no  love 
between  us  and  there  needn't  be  any  hypocrisies.  You 
want  to  get  rid  of  me  and  I  want  to  go.  But  before 
I  do,  I'd  like  to  say  something."  He  drew  a  step 
nearer,  his  face  suddenly  suffused  with  a  dark  flush, 
his  eyes  set  and  narrowed.  "  You've  done  one  thing 
to  me  that  you're  going  to  regret  —  stolen  my  child. 
Yes,"  in  answer  to  a  protesting  sound  from  Mr.  Janney, 
"  stolen  her  —  that's  what  I  said.  You  think  you  can 

7 


Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 


hide  behind  your  money  bags  and  do  what  you  like. 
Maybe  you  can  nine  times,  but  there's  a  tenth  when 
things  don't  work  the  way  you've  expected.  Watch 
out  for  it  —  it's  due  now." 

His  voice  was  raised,  loud,  furious,  threatening. 
The  dining  room  door  flew  open  and  Dixon  appeared  on 
the  threshold  in  alarmed  consternation.  Mr.  Janney 
stepped  forward  belligerently: 

"  Chapman,  now  look  here  — " 

Mrs.  Janney  laid  a  hand  on  her  husband's  arm: 

"  Don't  answer  him,  Sam,"  then  to  Chapman,  her 
face  stony  in  its  controlled  passion,  "  I  want  no  more 
words  with  you.  Our  affairs  are  finished.  Kindly 
leave  the  house  as  soon  as  possible."  She  turned  to 
the  butler  who  was  staring  at  them  with  dropped  jaw: 
"  Shut  that  door,  Dixon,  and  stay  where  you  belong." 
The  sound  of  footsteps  at  the  stair-head  caught  her 
ear.  "The  other  servants  are  coming:  we'll  have  an 
audience  for  this  pleasant  scene.  We'd  better  go, 
Sam,  as  Chapman  doesn't  seem  to  have  heard  my  re- 
quest for  him  to  leave,  the  only  thing  for  us  is  to  leave 
ourselves." 

She  swept  her  husband  off  across  the  hall  toward 
the  balcony.  Behind  them  the  young  man's  voice  rose : 

"  Oh  don't  have  any  fears.  I'm  going.  But  I  may 
come  back  —  that's  what  you  want  to  remember  —  I 
may  come  back  to  settle  the  score." 

8 


The  Parting  of  the  Ways 


Then  they  heard  his  footsteps  mounting  the  stairs 
in  a  long,  leaping  run. 

In  his  own  room  he  found  his  valet,  Willitts,  a  small, 
fair-haired  young  Englishman,  closing  the  trunks. 
The  door  was  open  and  he  had  a  suspicion  that  the 
footsteps  Mrs.  Janney  had  heard  were  probably  Wil- 
litts'. He  didn't  care,  he  didn't  care  what  Willitts  had 
heard.  The  man  knew  anyhow ;  they  all  knew.  There 
wasn't  a  servant  in  the  house  or  a  soul  in  the  village 
who  wouldn't  by  to-morrow  be  telling  how  the  Janneys 
had  thrown  him  out  and  were  planning  to  get  posses- 
sion of  his  child. 

He  strode  about  the  room,  tumbled  the  neat  piles  of 
cravats  and  handkerchiefs  on  the  bureau,  yanked  up 
the  blinds.  In  his  still  seething  passion  he  muttered 
curses  at  everything,  the  clothes  that  lay  across  chair 
backs,  the  boots  that  he  kicked  as  he  walked,  finally  the 
valet  who  once  got  in  his  way.  The  man  made  no 
answer,  did  not  appear  to  notice  it,  but  went  on  with 
his  work,  silent,  unobtrusive,  competent.  Presently 
Chapman  became  quieter ;  the  storm  was  receding.  He 
fell  into  a  chair,  sat  sunk  in  moody  reflection,  and, 
after  studying  the  shining  toes  of  his  shoes  for  some 
minutes,  looked  at  the  man  and  said,  "  Forget  it,  Wil- 
litts. I  was  mad  straight  through." 

It  may  have  been  a  capacity  to  make  such  amends 
that  caused  all  servants  to  like  Chapman  Price.  Wil- 

9 


Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

litts,  who  had  been  in  his  service  for  nearly  a  year, 
was  known  to  be  devoted  to  him. 

An  hour  later,  when  they  left,  the  house  had  an  air 
of  desertion.  The  large  lower  hall,  with  vistas  of 
stately  rooms  through  arched  doorways,  was  as  silent 
as  the  Sleeping  Beauty's  palace.  Chapman's  glance 
swept  it  all  —  rich  and  still,  gleams  of  parquette  show- 
ing beyond  the  Persian  rugs,  curtains  too  heavily 
splendid  for  the  breeze  to  stir,  flowers  in  glowing  masses, 
the  big  motor,  visible  through  the  wide-flung  hall  door, 
a  finishing  touch  in  the  picture.  It  was  the  perfect  ex- 
pression of  a  carefully  devised  luxury,  a  luxury  which 
for  the  last  eight  years  had  lapped  him  in  slothful 
ease. 

As  he  came  out  on  the  verandah  steps  a  voice  hailed 
him  and  he  stopped,  the  sullen  ill  humor  of  his  face 
breaking  into  a  smile.  Across  the  lawn,  running  with 
fleet  steps,  came  his  daughter  Bebita.  Laughing  and 
gay  with  welcome,  she  was  as  fresh  as  a  morning  rose. 
Her  hat,  slipped  to  her  neck,  showed  the  glistening  gold 
of  her  hair  back-blown  in  ruffled  curls ;  her  rapid  pas- 
sage threw  her  dress  up  over  her  bare,  sunburned  knees, 
and  her  little  feet  in  black-strapped  slippers  sped  over 
the  grass.  Healthy,  happy,  surrounded  by  love  which 
she  returned  with  a  child's  sweet  democracy,  she  was 
enchanting  and  Chapman  adored  her. 

"  Where  are  you  going,  Popsy  ?  "  she  cried  and, 
10 


The  Parting  of  the  Ways 


dodging  round  the  back  of  the  motor,  came  panting  up 
the  steps.  Chapman  sat  down  on  the  top,  and  drew 
her  between  his  knees.  Otto,  the  chauffeur,  and  Wil- 
litts  with  the  bags,  watched  them  with  covert  interest, 
ready  to  avert  their  eyes  if  Chapman  should  look  their 
way.  The  nurse,  an  elderly  woman,  came  slowly  across 
the  grass,  also  watching. 

"  To  town,"  said  the  young  man,  scrutinizing  the 
lovely,  rosy  face,  with  its  deep  blue  eyes  raised  to  his. 

"  For  how  long?  "  She  was  used  to  her  father  go- 
ing to  town  and  not  reappearing  for  several  days. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know ;  longer  than  usual,  though,  I 
guess.  Going  to  miss  me?  " 

"  Um,  I  always  miss  you,  Popsy.  Will  you  bring  me 
something  when  you  come  back?  " 

"  Yes,  or  maybe  I  '11  send  it.     What  do  you  want?  " 

"  A  'lectric  torch  —  one  that  shines.  Polly's  got 
one  " —  Polly  was  the  little  friend  she  had  been  visiting 
— "  I  want  one  like  Polly's." 

"  All  right.     A  'lectric  torch." 

"  I'm  going  to  get  one,  Annie,"  she  cried  trium- 
phantly to  the  nurse ;  "  Popsy's  going  to  send  me  one." 
Then  turning  back  to  her  father,  "  Take  me  to  the  sta- 
tion with  you?  " 

Willitts  and  the  chauffeur  exchanged  a  glance.  The 
nurse  made  a  quick  forward  movement,  suddenly  gen- 
tly authoritative: 

11 


Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 


"  No,  no,  darling.  You  can't  drive  now.  It's  time 
to  go  in  and  take  your  rest." 

Bebita  looked  mutinous,  but  her  father,  drawing 
her  to  him  and  kissing  her,  rose: 

"  I  can't  honey-bun.  I'm  in  a  hurry  and  there 
wouldn't  be  any  fun  just  driving  down  to  the  village 
and  back.  You  run  along  with  Annie  now  and  as  soon 
as  I  get  to  town  I'll  buy  you  the  torch  and  send  it." 

The  nurse  mounted  the  steps,  took  the  child's  hand, 
and  together  they  stood  watching  Chapman  as  he  got 
in.  Willitts  took  the  seat  beside  the  chauffeur,  adroitly 
disposing  his  legs  among  a  pile  of  suitcases,  golf  bags, 
umbrellas  and  walking  sticks.  As  the  car  started  Chap- 
man looked  back  at  his  daughter.  She  was  regarding 
him  with  the  intent,  grave  interest,  a  little  wistful,  with 
which  children  watch  a  departure.  At  the  sight  of  his 
face,  she  smiled,  pranced  a  little,  and  called: 

"  Good-by,  Popsy  dear.  Don't  forget  the  torch. 
Come  back  soon,"  and  waved  her  free  hand. 

Chapman  gave  an  answering  wave  and  the  big  car 
rolled  off  with  a  cool  crackle  of  gravel. 

The  village  —  the  spotless,  prosperous  village  of 
Berkeley  enriched  by  the  great  estates  about  it  —  was 
a  half  mile  from  Grasslands'  wrought-iron  gates.  The 
road  passed  through  woods,  opening  here  and  there 
to  afford  glimpses  of  emerald  lawns  backed  by  large 
houses,  with  the  slope  of  awnings  above  their  balconies. 


The  Parting  of  the  Ways 


On  either  side  of  this  highway  ran  a  shady  path,  worn 
hard  by  the  feet  of  pedestrians  and  the  wheels  of 
bicycles. 

As  the  Janney  motor  turned  out  into  the  road  a 
young  woman  was  walking  along  one  of  these  paths, 
returning  to  Grasslands.  She  appeared  to  be  en- 
grossed in  thought,  her  step  loitering,  her  eyes  down- 
cast, a  slight  line  showing  between  her  brows.  Out  of 
range  of  the  sun  she  had  let  her  parasol  droop  over  her 
shoulder  and  its  green  disk  made  a  charming  back- 
ground for  her  head.  She  wore  no  hat  and  against  the 
taut  silk  her  hair  showed  a  glossy,  burnished  brown. 
It  was  beautiful  hair,  growing  low  on  her  forehead  and 
waving  backward  in  loose  undulations  to  the  thick  knot 
at  the  nape  of  her  neck.  Her  skin  was  pale,  her  eyes, 
under  long  brows  that  lifted  slightly  at  the  outer  ends, 
deep-set,  narrow  and  dark.  She  was  hardly  handsome, 
but  people  noticed  her,  wondered  why  they  did,  and 
then  said  she  was  "  artistic-looking,"  or  maybe  it  was 
just  personality;  anyway,  say  what  you  like,  there 
was  something  about  her  that  caught  your  eye. 
Dressed  entirely  in  white,  a  slim,  sunburned  hand  coiled 
round  the  parasol  handle,  her  throat  left  bare  by  a 
sailor  collar,  she  was  as  trim,  as  flecklessly  dainty, 
graceful  and  comely  as  a  picture-girl  painted  on  the 
green  canvas  of  the  trees. 

At  the  sight  of  her  Chapman,  who  had  been  lounging 

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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

in  the  tonneau,  started  and  his  morose  eye  brightened. 
As  the  motor  ran  toward  her,  she  looked  up,  saw  who  it 
was,  and  in  the  moment  of  passing,  inclined  her  head 
in  a  grave  salutation.  Chapman  leaned  forward  and 
touched  the  chauffeur  on  the  shoulder. 

"  Just  stop  for  a  minute,  Otto,  I  want  to  speak  to 
Miss  Maitland." 

She  did  not  see  that  the  car  had  stopped  or  hear 
the  footstep  on  the  grass  behind  him.  Chapman's  voice 
was  low: 

"  Hullo,  Esther.  Don't  be  in  such  a  hurry.  I'm 
going." 

She  wheeled,  evidently  startled,  her  face  disturbed 
and  unsmiling. 

"  Oh!     Do  you  mean  really  going?  " 

"  Yes.  Parting  of  the  ways  —  all  that  sort  of 
thing." 

He  eyed  her  with  a  curious,  watching  interest  and 
she  returned  the  look,  her  own  uneasily  intent. 

"  Why  do  you  stop  to  tell  me  that,"  was  what  she 
said.  "  Everybody  knew  it  was  coming." 

He  shrugged  and  then  smiled,  a  smile  full  of  mean- 
ing: 

"  I  thought  you'd  like  to  hear  it  —  from  me,  first 
hand.  I'll  be  a  free  man  in  a  year." 

She  stood  for  a  moment  looking  at  the  ground,  then 
lifting  the  parasol  over  her  head,  said : 

14 


The  Parting  of  the  Ways 


"  If  you're  going  to  catch  the  three  forty-five  you'd 
better  hurry." 

His  smile  deepened,  showed  a  roguish  malice,  and  as 
he  turned  from  her,  raising  his  hat,  he  murmured  just 
loud  enough  for  her  to  hear : 

"  Thanks  for  reminding  me.  I  wouldn't  miss  that 
train  for  a  farm  —  I'm  devilish  keen  to  get  to  the 
city." 

He  ran  back  to  the  waiting  motor  and  the  girl  re- 
sumed her  walk,  her  step  even  slower  than  before,  her 
face  down-drooped  in  frowning  reverie. 

There  was  no  chair  car  on  the  three  forty-five  and 
Chapman  had  to  travel  in  the  common  coach,  Willitts 
and  the  luggage  crowded  into  the  seat  behind  him.  It 
was  an  hour  and  a  half  run  to  the  Pennsylvania  Sta- 
tion and  he  spent  the  time  thinking  over  the  situation 
and  arranging  his  future.  His  business  —  Long  Island 
real  estate  —  had  been  allowed  to  go  to  the  dogs.  He 
would  have  to  get  busy  in  earnest,  and,  with  his  friends 
and  large  acquaintance  to  throw  things  in  his  way,  he 
could  put  it  on  a  paying  basis.  His  expenses  would 
have  to  be  cut  down  to  the  bone.  He'd  give  up  his 
chambers,  a  suite  in  a  bachelor  apartment  —  Willitts 
could  find  him  a  cheap  room  somewhere  —  and  of 
course  he'd  give  up  Willitts.  That  had  been  already 
arranged  and  the  faithful  soul  had  asked  leave  to  help 
him  in  the  move  and  stay  with  him  till  a  new  job  was 

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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

found.  He  would  keep  his  car  —  it  would  be  neces- 
sary in  his  business  —  and  could  be  stored  in  the  garage 
at  Cedar  Brook  where  he'd  spend  his  week-ends  with  the 
Hartleys.  Joe  Hartley  was  one  of  his  best  friends, 
knew  all  about  his  marriage  and  had  counseled  a  sepa- 
ration more  than  a  year  ago.  He'd  probably  spend  a 
good  deal  of  his  time  at  Cedar  Brook,  it  was  a  growing 
place;  unfortunate  that  it  should  be  the  next  station 
after  Berkeley,  but  it  could  not  be  helped.  He  was 
bound  to  run  into  the  Janney  outfit  and  he'd  have  to 
get  used  to  it. 

The  train  was  entering  the  tunnel  when  he  gave  Wil- 
litts  his  instructions  —  go  to  the  apartment  and  pack 
up,  then  see  about  a  room.  He  himself  would  look  up 
some  places  he  knew  of,  and  if  he  found  anything 
suitable  he'd  come  back  to  the  apartment  and  the  things 
could  be  moved  to-morrow.  They  separated  in  the 
depot,  Willitts  and  the  luggage  in  a  taxi,  Chapman  on 
foot.  But  that  part  of  the  city  to  which  he  took  his 
way,  dingy,  unkempt,  remote  from  the  section  where 
his  kind  dwelt,  was  not  a  place  where  Chapman  Price, 
fallen  from  his  high  estate  as  he  was,  would  have 
chosen  to  house  himself. 


16 


CHAPTER  II 

MISS    MAITLAXD    GETS    A    LETTER 

IT  was  Thursday  morning,  three  days  after  her 
husband's  departure,  and  Suzanne  was  sitting 
in  the  window  seat  of  her  room  looking  across 
the  green  distances  to  where  the  roof  of  Dick  Fergu- 
son's place,  Council  Oaks,  rose  above  the  tree  tops. 
Council  Oaks  adjoined  Grasslands,  there  was  a  short 
cut  which  connected  them  —  a  path  through  the  woods. 
Before  Mrs.  Janney  bought  Grasslands  the  path  had 
become  moss-grown,  almost  obliterated.  Then  when 
she  took  possession  the  two  households  wore  it  bare 
again.  The  servants  found  it  shortened  the  walk  from 
kitchen  to  kitchen;  Mr.  Janney  often  footed  its  green 
windings ;  Dick  Ferguson's  father  had  been  one  of  his 
cronies,  and  Dick  Ferguson  himself  was  the  most  con- 
stant traveler  of  them  all. 

Council  Oaks  was  a  very  old  place;  it  had  been  in 
the  Ferguson  family  since  the  days  when  the  British 
governors  rolled  over  Long  Island  in  their  lumbering 
coaches.  Before  that  the  Indians  had  used  it  for  a 
council  ground,  their  tepees  pitched  under  the  shade  of 

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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

the  four  giant  oaks  from  which  it  took  its  name.  The 
Fergusons  had  kept  the  farm  house,  built  after  the  Rev- 
olution, adding  wings  to  it,  till  it  now  extended  in  a 
long,  sprawl  of  white  buildings,  with  the  original  worn 
stone  as  a  step  to  its  knockered  front  door,  and  the 
low,  raftered  ceilings,  plank  floors,  and  deep-mouthed 
fireplaces  of  its  early  occupation. 

There  Dick  Ferguson  lived  all  summer,  going  to  town 
at  intervals  to  attend  to  the  business  of  the  Ferguson 
estate,  for,  like  the  young  man  in  the  Bible,  he  had 
great  possessions.  The  dead  and  gone  Fergusons  had 
been  canny  and  thrifty,  bought  land  far  beyond  the 
city  limits  and  sat  in  their  offices  and  waited  until  the 
town  grew  round  it.  It  was  known  among  the  present 
owner's  intimates  that  he  disapproved  of  this  method  of 
enrichment,  and  that  his  extensive  charities  and  en- 
dowments were  an  attempt  to  pay  back  what  he  felt 
he  owed.  He  was  very  silent  about  them,  only  a  few 
knew  of  the  many  secret  channels  through  which  the 
Ferguson  millions  were  being  diverted  to  the  relief  of 
the  people. 

But  none  of  this  seriousness  showed  on  the  outside. 
If  you  didn't  know  him  well  Dick  Ferguson  was  the  last 
person  you  would  suspect  of  a  sense  of  responsibility  or 
a  view  of  life  that  was  anything  but  easy-going  and 
light-hearted.  People  described  him  as  a  nice  chap,  not 
a  bit  spoiled  by  his  money,  just  a  big,  jolly  boy,  simple 

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Miss  Maiiland  Gets  a  Letter 


and  unaffected.  He  looked  the  part  with  his  long, 
lank  figure,  leggy  as  a  young  colt,  his  shock  of  light 
brown  hair  that  never  would  lie  flat,  his  freckled,  ir- 
regular face  with  gray  eyes  that  had  an  engaging  way 
of  closing  when  he  laughed.  He  did  this  a  good  deal 
and  it  may  have  been  one  of  the  reasons  why  so  many 
people  liked  him.  And  he  also  had  a  capacity  for 
listening  to  long-winded  tales  of  trouble,  which  may  have 
been  another.  He  was  twenty-nine  years  old  and  still 
unmarried,  and  that  was  his  own  fault  as  any  one  would 
tell  you. 

When  Sam  Janney  married  the  Pittsburg  widow  Dick 
Ferguson  became  a  friend  of  the  family.  He  fitted  in 
very  well,  for  he  was  sympathetic  and  understanding 
and  the  Janneys  had  troubles  to  tell.  He  heard  all 
about  Chapman's  shortcomings;  a  little  from  old  Sam 
who  was  not  expansive,  more  from  Mrs.  Janney,  and 
most  from  Suzanne.  He  was  very  sorry  for  her  and 
gave  her  good  advice.  "  A  poor  little  bit  of  bluff," 
he  called  her  to  himself,  and  then  would  stroll  over  to 
Grasslands  and  spend  an  hour  with  her  trying  to  cheer 
her  up. 

He  spent  a  good  many  hours  this  way  and  the  time 
came  when  Suzanne  began  to  wait  and  watch  for  his 
coming. 

Sitting  now  in  the  cushioned  window  seat  she  was 
wondering  if  he  would  come  that  morning  and  she  could 

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Miss  Mcdtland  Private  Secretary 


get  him  off  in  the  garden  and  tell  him  that  Chapman 
was  gone.  She  saw  herself  saying  it  with  lowered 
eyes  and  delicately  demure  phrases.  She  would  frankly 
admit  she  was  glad  it  was  over,  glad  she  would  be  free 
once  more,  for  in  the  autumn  she  would  go  to  Reno 
and  begin  proceedings  for  a  divorce. 

At  this  thought  she  subsided  against  the  cushions, 
and  closed  her  eyes  smiling  softly.  Seen  thus,  the 
bright  sunlight  tempered  by  filmy  curtains,  she  was 
a  pretty  woman,  looking  very  girlish  for  her  twenty- 
eight  years.  This  was  partly  due  to  her  extreme 
slenderness  and  partly  to  her  blonde  coloring.  Both 
had  been  preserved  with  sedulous  care:  the  one  matter 
in  which  she  exercised  self-restraint  was  her  food,  the 
one  occasion  on  which  she  showed  patience  was  when 
her  maid  was  washing  her  hair  with  a  solution  of 
peroxide. 

Every  window  in  the  large,  luxurious  room  was  open 
and  through  them  drifted  a  flow  of  air,  scented  with 
the  sea  and  the  breath  of  flowers.  Then  rising  on  the 
stillness  came  the  sound  of  voices  —  a  man's  and  a 
woman's  —  from  the  balcony  below.  They  were  Mr. 
Janney's  and  Miss  Maitland's  —  the  secretary  was  pre- 
paring to  read  the  morning  papers  to  her  employer. 

Suzanne  opened  her  eyes  and  sat  up,  the  smile  dying 
from  her  lips.  The  dreamy  complacence  left  her  face 
and  was  replaced  by  a  look  of  brooding  irritation.  It 

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Miss  Maitland  Gets  a  Letter 


changed  her  so  completely  that  she  ceased  to  be  pretty 

—  suddenly  showed  her  years,  and  was  revealed  as  a 
woman,  already  fading,  preyed  upon  by  secret  vexa- 
tions. 

She  rose  adjusting  her  dress,  a  marvelous  creation 
of  thin  white  material  with  floating  edges  of  lace.  She 
went  to  the  mirror,  powdered  her  face  and  touched  her 
lips  with  a  stick  of  red  salve,  then  studied  her  reflection. 
It  should  have  been  satisfying,  delicate,  fragile,  a  lovely, 
ethereal  creature,  with  baby  blue  eyes  and  silky,  maize- 
colored  hair.  It  was  not  to  be  believed  that  any  man 
could  look  at  Esther  Maitland  when  she  was  by  —  and 
yet  —  and  yet  — !  She  turned  from  the  mirror  with 
an  angry  mutter  and  went  downstairs. 

On  the  balcony  Miss  Maitland  was  looking  over  the 
papers  with  Mr.  Janney  opposite  waiting  to  be  read 
to.  Suzanne  sat  down  near  them  where  she  could  com- 
mand the  place  in  the  woods  where  the  path  from  Coun- 
cil Oaks  struck  into  the  lawn.  With  a  sidelong  eye 
she  noted  the  Secretary's  hand  on  the  edge  of  the 
paper  —  narrow,  satin-skinned,  with  fingers  finely  ta- 
pering and  pink-tipped.  Her  fingers  were  short  and 
spatulate,  showing  her  common  blood,  and  all  the  pink 
on  them  had  to  be  applied  with  a  chamois.  Miss  Mait- 
land began  to  read  —  the  war  news  first  was  the  rule 

—  and  her  voice  was  a  pleasure  to  hear,  cultivated, 
soft,  musical.     Suzanne,  for  all  her  expensive  education 

21 


Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

and  subsequent  efforts,  had  never  been  able  to  refine 
hers ;  the  ugly  Pittsburg  burr  would  crop  out. 

A  gnawing  fancy  that  she  had  been  fighting  against 
for  weeks  rose  suddenly  into  jealous  conviction.  This 
girl  —  a  penniless  nobody  —  had  a  quality,  an  air,  a 
distinction,  that  she  with  all  her  advantages  had  never 
been  able  to  acquire,  could  never  acquire.  It  was  some- 
thing innate,  something  you  were  born  with,  something 
that  made  you  fitted  for  any  sphere.  Immovable,  ap- 
parently absorbed  in  the  reading,  Suzanne  began  to 
think  how  she  could  induce  her  mother  to  dispense  with 
the  services  of  the  Social  Secretary. 

When  the  war  news  was  finished  Miss  Maitland  passed 
on  to  the  news  of  the  day.  On  this  particular  morn- 
ing it  was  varied  and  interesting:  A  Western  senator 
had  attacked  the  President's  policy  with  unseemly 
vigor;  the  mysterious  murder  of  a  woman  in  Chicago 
had  developed  a  new  suspect;  a  California  mob  had 
nearly  killed  a  Japanese  student ;  and  in  the  New  York 
loft  district  a  strike  of  shirtwaist  makers  had  attained 
the  proportions  of  a  riot  in  which  one  of  the  pickets 
had  stabbed  a  policeman  with  a  hatpin. 

Mr.  Janney  was  shocked  at  these  horrors,  but  he 
always  liked  to  hear  them.  Miss  Maitland  had  to  stop 
reading  and  listen  to  a  theory  he  had  evolved  about  the 
Chicago  murder  —  it  was  the  woman's  husband  and 
he  demonstrated  how  this  was  possible.  Then  he  took 


Miss  Maitland  Gets  a  Letter 


up  the  shirtwaist  strike  with  a  fussy  disapproval  — 
they  got  nothing  by  violence,  only  set  the  public  against 
them  and  their  cause.  Miss  Maitland  was  inclined  to 
argue  about  it ;  thought  there  was  something  to  say  for 
their  methods  and  said  it. 

Suzanne  listened  uncomprehending,  unable  to  join  in 
or  to  follow.  She  had  heard  such  arguments  before 
and  had  to  sit  silent,  feeling  a  fool.  The  girl  didn't 
know  her  place,  talked  as  if  she  were  their  equal,  talked 
to  Dick  that  way,  and  DkV  had  been  interested,  giving 
her  an  attention  he  never  gave  Suzanne.  Mr.  Janney 
was  doing  it  now,  leaning  out  of  his  chair,  voicing  his 
hope  that  a  speedy  vengeance  would  overtake  the  picket 
who  had  made  her  escape  in  the  melee. 

The  conversation  was  brought  to  an  end  by  the  ap- 
pearance of  Mrs.  Janney.  It  was  time  for  the  mail; 
Otto  had  gone  for  it  an  hour  ago.  Before  its  arrival 
Mrs.  Janney  wanted  their  answers  about  two  dinner 
invitations  which  had  just  come  by  telephone.  One 
was  for  herself  and  Sam  —  Sunday  night  at  the  Dela- 
valles  —  and  the  other  was  from  Dick  Ferguson  for  to- 
night —  all  of  them,  very  informally  —  just  himself  and 
Ham  Lorimer  who  was  staying  there. 

Mr.  Janney  agreed  to  both  and  in  answer  to  her 
mother's  glance  Suzanne  said  languidly,  "  Yes,  she'd 
go  to-night  —  there  was  nothing  else  to  do." 

"  And  he  wants  you  too,  Miss  Maitland,"  said  Mrs. 

23 


Miss  MMand  Private  Secretary 


Janney,  turning  to  the  Secretary.  "  You'll  come,  won't 
you?" 

Miss  Maitland  said  she  would  and  that  it  was  very 
kind  of  Mr.  Ferguson  to  ask  her.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Jan- 
ney exchanged  a  gratified  glance;  they  were  much  at- 
tached to  the  Secretary  and  felt  that  their  lordly 
circle  ignored  her  existence  more  than  was  necessary 
or  kindly.  Suzanne  said  nothing,  but  the  edges  of 
her  small  upper  teeth  set  close  on  her  under  lip,  and 
her  nostrils  quivered  with  a  deep-drawn  breath. 

Mrs.  Janney  gave  orders  for  messages  of  acceptance 
to  be  sent,  then  sank  into  a  chair,  remarking  to  her 
husband : 

"  I'm  glad  you'll  go  to  the  Delavalles.  It's  to  be 
a  large  dinner.  I'll  wear  my  emeralds." 

To  which  Mr.  Janney  murmured : 

"  By  all  means,  my  dear.  The  Delavalles  will  like  to 
see  them." 

Mrs.  Janney's  emeralds  were  famous ;  they  had  once 
belonged  to  Maria  Theresa.  As  old  Sam  thought  of 
them  he  smiled,  for  he  knew  why  his  wife  had  decided 
to  wear  them.  In  her  climbing  days,  before  her  mar- 
riage to  him  had  secured  her  position,  the  Delavalles 
had  snubbed  her.  Now  she  was  going  to  snub  them, 
not  in  any  obvious,  vulgar  way,  but  finely  as  was  her 
wont,  with  the  assistance  of  himself  and  Maria  Theresa. 

The  motor  came  into  view  gliding  up  the  long  drive 


Miss  Mcdtland  Gets  a  Letter 


and  the  waiting  group  roused  into  expectant  anima- 
tion. Mr.  Janney  rose,  kicking  his  trouser  legs  into 
shape,  Miss  Maitland  gathered  up  the  papers,  and  Mrs. 
Janney  went  to  the  top  of  the  steps.  In  the  tonneau, 
her  body  encircled  by  Annie's  restraining  arm,  Bebita 
stood,  waving  an  electric  torch  and  caroling  joyfully: 

"  It's  come  —  it's  come.  It  was  sent  to  me,  in  a  box, 
with  my  name  on  it." 

She  leaped  out,  rushing  up  the  steps  to  display  her 
treasure,  Annie  following  with  the  mail.  There  was 
quite  a  bunch  of  it  which  Mrs.  Janney  distributed  — 
several  for  Sam,  a  pile  for  herself,  one  for  Suzanne  and 
one  for  Miss  Maitland.  They  settled  down  to  it  amid 
a  crackling  of  torn  envelopes,  Bebita  darting  from 
one  to  the  other. 

She  tried  her  mother  first : 

"  Mummy,  look.  You  just  press  this  and  the  light 
comes  out  at  the  other  end." 

Suzanne's  eyes  on  her  letter  did  not  lift,  and  Bebita 
laid  a  soft  little  hand  on  the  tinted  cheek : 

'*  Mummy,  do  please  look." 

Suzanne  pushed  the  hand  away  with  an  angry  move- 
ment. 

"  Let  me  alone,  Bebita,"  she  said  sharply  and,  get- 
ting up,  thrust  the  child  out  of  her  way  and  went  into 
the  house. 

For  a  moment  Bebita  was  astonished.  Her  mother, 

25 


Miss  Mcdtland  Private  Secretary 


who  was  so  often  cross  to  other  people,  was  rarely  so 
to  her.  But  the  torch  was  too  enthralling  for  any 
other  subject  to  occupy  her  thoughts  and  she  turned  to 
her  grandfather,  reading  a  business  communication  held 
out  in  front  of  his  nose  for  he  had  on  the  wrong  glasses. 
She  crowded  in  under  his  arm  and  sparked  the  torch  at 
him  waiting  to  see  his  delighted  surprise.  But  he  only 
drew  her  close,  kissed  her  cheek  and  murmured  without 
moving  his  eyes: 

"  Yes,  darling.     It 's  wonderful." 

That  was  not  what  she  wanted  so  she  tried  her  grand- 
mother : 

*'  Gran,  do  look  at  my  torch." 

Gran  looked,  not  at  the  torch  at  all  but  at  Bebita's 
face,  smiled  into  it,  said,  "  Dearest,  it's  lovely  and  I'm 
go  glad  it's  come,"  and  went  back  to  her  reading. 

It  was  all  disappointing,  and  Bebita,  as  a  last  re- 
source, had  to  try  Miss  Maitland,  who,  if  not  a  rela- 
tion, was  always  sympathetic  and  responsive.  The 
Secretary  was  reading  too,  holding  her  letter  up  high, 
almost  in  front  of  her  face.  Bebita  laid  a  sly  finger  on 
the  top  of  it,  drew  it  down  and  sparked  the  torch  right 
at  Miss  Maitland. 

In  the  shoot  of  brilliant  light  the  Secretary's  face 
was  like  that  of  a  stranger  —  hard  and  thin,  the  mouth 
slightly  open,  the  eyes  staring  blankly  at  Bebita  as  if 
they  had  never  seen  her  before.  For  a  second  the  child 

26 


Miss  Maitland  Gets  a  Letter 

was  dumb,  held  in  a  scared  amazement,  then  backing 
away  she  faltered: 

"  Why  —  why  —  how  funny  you  look !  " 

The  words  seemed  to  bring  Miss  Maitland  back  to 
her  usual,  pleasant  aspect.  She  drew  a  deep  breath, 
smiled  and  said: 

"  I  was  thinking,  that  was  all  —  something  I  was 
reading  here.  The  torch  is  beautiful ;  you  must  let  me 
try  it,  but  not  now,  I  have  to  go.  I've  read  the  papers 
to  Gramp  and  I've  work  to  do  in  my  study." 

Any  one  who  knew  Miss  Maitland  well  might  have 
noticed  a  forced  sprightliness  in  her  voice.  But  no 
one  was  listening ;  Suzanne  had  gone  and  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Janney  were  engrossed  in  their  correspondence.  She 
stole  a  look  at  them,  saw  them  unheeding  and,  with  a 
farewell  nod  to  Bebita,  rose  and  crossed  the  balcony. 
As  she  entered  the  house,  the  will  that  had  made  her 
smile,  maintained  her  voice  at  its  clear,  fresh  note,  re- 
laxed. Her  face  sharpened,  its  soft  curves  grew  rigid, 
her  lips  closed  in  a  narrow  line.  With  noiseless  steps 
she  ran  through  the  wide  foyer  hall  and  down  a  passage 
that  led  to  the  room,  reserved  for  her  use  and  called 
her  study.  Here,  locking  the  door,  she  came  to  a  stand, 
her  hands  clasped  against  her  breast,  her  eyes  fixed  and 
tragic,  a  figure  of  consternation. 


CHAPTER  III 

ANOTHER    LETTEB    AND    WHAT    FOLLOWED    IT 

SUZANNE,  her  letter  crumpled  in  her  hand,  had 
gone  directly  to  her  own  room.     There  she  read 
it  for  the  second  time,  its  baleful  import  sink- 
ing deeper  into  her  consciousness  with  every  sentence. 
It  was  in  typewriting  and  bore  the  Berkeley  postmark: 

"DEAR  Mas.  PRICE: 

This  is  just  a  line  to  give  your  memory  and  your  conscience  a 
jog.  Your  bridge  debts  are  accumulating.  Also,  I  hear,  there 
are  dressmakers  and  milliners  in  town  who  are  growing  restive. 
If  there  was  insufficient  means  I  wouldn't  bother  you,  but  any  one 
who  dresses  and  spends  as  you  do  hasn't  that  excuse.  Perhaps 
you  don't  know  what  is  being  said  and  felt.  Believe  me  you 
wouldn't  like  it;  neither  would  Mrs.  Janney.  It  is  for  her  sake 
that  I  am  warning  you.  I  don't  want  to  see  her  hurt  and  humil- 
iated as  she  would  be  if  this  comes  out  in  The  Eavesdropper,  and 
it  will  unless  you  act  quickly.  'There's  a  chiel  among  you  takin' 
notes '  and  that  chiel's  had  a  line  on  you  for  some  time.  So  take 
these  words  to  heart  and  as  the  boys  say,  '  Come  across.' 

A  FRIEXD." 

Ever  since  the  opening  of  the  season  the  summer 
colony  of  which  Berkeley  was  the  hub  had  been  the  sub- 
ject of  paragraphs  —  more  or  less  scandalous  —  ap- 
pearing in  The  Eavesdropper.  The  paper,  a  scurrilous 

28 


Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

weekly,  had  evidently  some  inside  informer,  for  most  of 
the  disclosures  were  true  and  could  only  have  been 
obtained  by  a  member  of  the  community.  Suzanne, 
whose  debts  would  make  racy  reading,  had  quaked  every 
time  she  opened  it.  So  far  she  had  been  spared,  and 
she  had  hoped  to  escape  by  a  gradual  clearing  off  of  her 
obligations.  But  she  had  not  been  able  to  do  it  —  un- 
foreseen things  had  happened.  And  now  the  dreaded 
had  come  to  pass  —  she  would  be  written  up  in  The 
Eavesdropper. 

Though  her  allowance  had  been  princely  she  had 
kept  on  going  over  it  ever  since  her  marriage  and  her 
mother  had  kept  on  covering  the  deficit.  But  last 
autumn  Mrs.  Janney  had  lost  both  patience  and  tem- 
per and  put  her  foot  down  with  a  final  stamp.  Then 
the  winter  had  come,  a  feverish,  crowded  winter  of  end- 
less parties  and  endless  card  playing,  and  Suzanne  had 
somehow  gone  over  it  again,  gone  over  —  she  didn't 
dare  to  think  of  what  she  owed.  Tradespeople  had 
threatened  her,  she  was  afraid  to  go  to  her  mother,  she 
told  lies  and  made  promises,  and  at  that  juncture  a 
woman  friend  acquainted  her  with  the  mystery  of 
stocks  —  easy  money  to  be  made  in  speculation.  She 
had  tried  that  and  made  a  good  deal  —  almost  cleared 
her  score  —  and  then  in  April  all  her  stocks  suddenly 
went  down.  Inquiries  revealed  the  fact  that  stocks  did 
not  always  stay  down  and  reassured  she  set  forth  on 

29 


Another  Letter  and  What  Followed  It 

a  zestful  orgy  of  renewed  bridge  and  summer  out- 
fitting. But  the  stocks  never  came  up,  they  remained 
down,  as  far  down  as  they  could  get,  against  the  bot- 
tom. 

She  felt  as  if  she  was  there  herself  as  she  reviewed 
her  position. 

She  couldn't  let  it  be  known.  She  would  be  ruined, 
called  dishonest ;  the  yellow  papers  might  get  it  —  they 
were  always  writing  things  against  the  rich.  Dick 
Ferguson  would  see  it,  and  he  despised  people  who  didn't 
pay  their  bills  ;  she  had  heard  him  say  so  to  Mr.  Janney, 
remembered  his  tone  of  contempt.  There  would  be  no 
use  lying  to  him  for  she  felt  bitterly  certain  that  Mr. 
Janney  had  told  him  what  her  mother  gave  her.  There 
was  nothing  for  it  but  to  go  to  Mrs.  Janney  and  she 
quailed  at  the  thought,  for  her  mother,  forgiving  unto 
seventy  times  seven,  at  seventy  times  eight  could  be 
resolute  and  relentless.  But  it  was  the  one  way  out 
and  she  had  to  take  it. 

When  no  engagements  claimed  her  afternoons  Mrs. 
Janney  went  for  a  drive  at  four.  At  lunch  she  an- 
nounced her  intention  of  going  out  in  the  open  car  and 
asked  if  any  of  the  others  wanted  to  come.  All  re- 
fused: Mr.  Janney  was  contemplating  a  ride,  Suzanne 
would  rest,  Miss  Maitland  had  some  sewing  to  do  on 
her  dress  for  that  evening.  Both  Suzanne  and  Miss 
Maitland  were  very  quiet  and  appeared  to  suffer  from  a 

30 


Another  Letter  and  What  Followed  It 

loss  of  appetite.  After  the  meal  the  Secretary  went 
upstairs  and  Suzanne  followed. 

She  waited  until  Mr.  Janney  was  safely  started^  on 
his  ride,  then,  feeling  sick  and  wan,  crossed  the  hall 
to  her  mother's  boudoir.  Mrs.  Janney  was  at  her  desk 
writing  letters,  with  Elspeth,  her  maid,  a  gray-haired, 
sturdy  Scotch  woman,  standing  by  the  table  opening 
packages  that  had  just  arrived  from  town.  Elspeth, 
like  most  of  Mrs.  Janney's  servants,  had  been  in  her 
employ  for  years,  entering  her  service  in  the  old  Pitts- 
burg  days  and  being  promoted  to  the  post  of  personal 
attendant.  She  knew  a  good  deal  about  the  household, 
more  even  than  Dixon,  admired  and  respected  her  mis- 
tress and  disliked  Suzanne. 

The  young  woman's  first  remark  was  addressed  to 
her,  and,  curtly  imperious,  was  of  a  kind  that  fed  the 
dislike : 

"  Go.     I  want  to  talk  to  Mrs.  Janney." 

"  That'll  do,  Elspeth,"  said  Mrs.  Janney  quietly. 
"  Thank  you  very  much.  I'll  finish  the  others  myself." 
Then  as  the  woman  withdrew  into  the  bedroom  be- 
yond, "  I  wish  you  wouldn't  speak  to  Elspeth  that  way, 
Suzanne.  It's  bad  taste  and  bad  manners." 

Suzanne  was  in  no  state  to  consider  Elspeth's  feel- 
ings or  her  own  manners.  She  was  so  nervous  that  she 
blundered  into  her  subject  without  diplomatic  prelimi- 
naries, gaining  no  encouragement  from  her  mother's 

31 


Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 


face,  which,  at  first  startled,  gradually  hardened  into 
stern  indignation. 

It  was  a  hateful  scene,  degenerated  —  anyway  on 
Suzanne's  part  —  into  a  quarrel,  a  bitter  arraignment 
of  her  mother  as  unloving  and  ungenerous.  For  Mrs. 
Janney  refused  the  money,  put  her  foot  down  with  a 
stamp  that  carried  conviction.  She  was  even  grimmer 
and  more  determined  than  her  daughter  had  expected, 
the  girl's  anger  and  upbraidings  ineffectual  to  gain  their 
purpose  as  spray  to  soften  a  rock.  Her  decision  was 
ruthless ;  Suzanne  must  pay  her  own  debts,  out  of  her 
own  allowance.  Yes,  even  if  she  was  written  up  in  the 
papers.  That  was  her  affair:  if  she  did  things  that 
were  disgraceful  she  must  bear  the  disgrace.  The  in- 
terview ended  by  Suzanne  rushing  out  of  the  room,  a 
trail  of  loud,  clamorous  sobs  marking  her  passage 
to  her  own  door. 

When  she  had  gone  Mrs.  Janney  broke  down  and 
cried  a  little.  She  had  thought  the  girl  improved  of 
late,  less  selfish,  more  tender.  And  now  she  had  been 
so  cruel;  the  charge  of  a  lack  in  love  had  pierced  the 
mother's  heart.  Mr.  Janney,  returned  from  his  ride, 
found  her  there,  looking  old,  her  eyes  reddened,  her 
voice  husky.  When  he  heard  the  story,  he  took  her 
hand  and  stroked  it.  His  tact  prevented  him  from 
saying  what  he  felt ;  what  he  did  say  was : 

"  That  bridge  money'U  have  to  be  paid." 


"  It  will  all  have  to  be  paid,"  Mrs.  Janney  sighed, 
"  and  I'll  have  to  pay  it  as  I  always  have.  But  I'm 
going  to  frighten  her  —  let  her  think  I  won't  —  for 
a  few  days  anyway.  It's  all  I  can  do  and  it  may 
have  some  effect." 

Her  husband  agreed  that  it  might  but  his  thoughts 
were  not  hopeful.  There  always  had  to  be  a  crumpled 
rose  leaf  and  Suzanne  was  theirs. 

He  accompanied  his  wife  on  her  drive  and  was  so 
understanding,  so  unobtrusively  soothing  and  sympa- 
thetic, that  when  they  returned  she  was  once  more  her 
masterful,  competent  self.  Noting  a  bank  of  storm 
clouds  rising  from  the  east,  she  told  Otto  to  bring  the 
limousine  when  he  came  for  them  at  a  quarter  to  eight. 
Inside  the  house  she  summoned  Dixon  and  said  as  the 
family  would  be  out  "  the  help  " —  it  was  part  of  her 
beneficent  policy  to  call  her  retinue  by  this  name  when 
speaking  to  any  of  its  members  —  could  go  out  that 
night  if  they  so  willed.  Dixon  admitted  that  they  had 
already  planned  a  general  sortie  on  "  the  movies  "  in 
the  village.  All  but  Hannah,  the  cook,  who  had  "  some- 
thing like  shooting  pains  in  her  feet,  and  Delia,  the 
second  housemaid,  who'd  got  an  insect  in  her  eyes, 
Madam.  But  it  wasn't  the  hurt  of  it  that  kept  her  in, 
only  the  look  which  she  didn't  want  seen." 

At  seven  the  storm  drove  up,  black  and  lowering, 
and  the  rain  fell  in  a  torrent.  It  was  still  falling 

33 


Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

when  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Janney  descended  the  stairs,  a  little 
in  advance  of  the  time  set,  for,  while  dressing,  Mrs. 
Janney  had  decided  that  her  costume  needed  a  brighten- 
ing touch,  which  would  be  suitably  imparted  by  her 
opal  necklace.  This,  being  rarely  worn,  was  kept  with 
the  more  valuable  jewels  in  the  safe  of  which  Elspeth 
did  not  know  the  combination.  Of  course  Mrs.  Janney 
did,  and  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  she  turned  into  a  pas- 
sage which  led  from  the  foyer  hall  into  the  kitchen 
wing.  It  was  a  short  connecting  artery  of  the  great 
house,  lit  by  two  windows  that  gave  on  rear  lawns,  and 
at  present  encumbered  by  a  chair  standing  near  the  first 
window.  Mrs.  Janney  recognized  the  chair  as  one  from 
her  sitting  room  which  had  been  broken  and  which 
Isaac,  the  footman,  had  said  he  could  repair.  She 
gave  it  a  proprietor's  inspecting  glance,  touched  the 
wounded  spot,  and  encountering  wet  varnish,  warned 
Mr.  Janney  away. 

In  the  wall  opposite  the  windows  the  safe  door  rose 
black  and  uncompromising  as  a  prison  entrance.  It 
was  large  and  old  fashioned  —  put  in  by  the  former 
owner  of  Grasslands.  Mrs.  Janney  talked  of  having 
a  more  modern  one  substituted  but  hadn't  "  got  round 
to  it,"  and  anyway  Mr.  Janney  thought  it  was  all  right 
—  burglaries  were  rare  in  Berkeley.  The  silver  had 
already  been  stored  for  the  night,  the  bosses  of  great 
bowls,  flowered  rims,  and  filagree  edgings  shining  from 

34, 


darkling  recesses.  The  electric  light  across  the  hall- 
way did  not  penetrate  to  the  side  shelves  and  Mr.  Jan- 
ney  had  to  assist  with  matches  while  his  wife  felt  round 
among  the  jewel  cases,  opening  several  in  her  search. 
Finally  they  emerged,  Mrs.  Janney  with  the  opals 
which  after  some  straining  she  clasped  round  her  neck, 
while  Sam  closed  the  door. 

As  they  reentered  the  main  hall  Suzanne  came  down 
the  stairs,  tripping  daintily  with  small  pointed  feet. 
She  was  very  splendid,  her  slenderness  accentuated  by 
the  length  of  satin  swathed  about  her,  from  which  her 
shoulders  emerged,  girlishly  fragile.  She  was  also  very 
much  made  up,  of  a  pink  and  white  too  dazzlingly  pure. 
With  her  blushing  delicacy  of  tint,  her  angry  eyes  and 
sulkily  drooping  mouth,  Mr.  Janney  thought  she  looked 
exactly  like  a  crumpled  rose  leaf. 

"  Where's  Miss  Maitland?  "  she  said  to  him,  ostenta- 
tiously ignoring  her  mother. 

Before  he  could  answer  Esther's  voice  came  from  the 
hall  above : 

"  Coming  —  coming.  I  hope  I  haven't  kept  you," 
and  she  appeared  at  the  stair-head. 

The  dress  she  wore,  green  trimmed  with  a  design  of 
small,  pink  chiffon  rosebuds  and  leaves,  was  the  realized 
dream  of  a  great  Parisian  faiseur.  It  had  been  Mrs. 
Janney's  who,  considering  it  too  youthful,  had  given 
it  to  her  Secretary.  Its  vivid  hue  was  singularly  be- 

35 


Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

coming,  lending  a  warm  whiteness  to  the  girl's  pale  skin, 
bringing  out  the  rich  darkness  of  her  burnished  hair. 
Her  bare  neck  was  as  smooth  as  curds,  not  a  bone 
rippled  its  gracious  contours;  the  little  rosebuds  and 
leaves  that  edged  the  corsage  looked  like  a  garland 
painted  on  ivory. 

It  was  a  good  dinner,  but  it  was  not  as  jolly  as  Dick 
Ferguson's  dinners  usually  were.  Before  it  was  over 
the  rain  stopped  and  a  full  moon  shone  through  the 
dining  room  windows.  Suzanne  had  hoped  she  and 
Dick  could  saunter  off  into  the  rose  garden  and  have 
that  talk  about  Chapman,  but  he  showed  no  desire  to 
do  so.  They  sat  about  in  long  chairs  on  the  balcony 
and  she  had  to  listen  to  Ham  Lorimer's  opinions  on 
the  war. 

As  soon  as  the  motor  came  she  wanted  to  go  —  she 
was  tired,  she  had  a  headache.  It  was  early,  only  a 
quarter  past  ten,  and  the  night  was  now  superb,  the 
sky  a  clear,  starless  blue  with  the  great  moon  queen- 
ing it  alone.  Mr.  Janney  would  have  liked  to  linger 
—  he  always  enjoyed  an  evening  with  Dick  —  but  she 
was  petulantly  perverse,  and  they  moved  to  the  wait- 
ing car  with  Ferguson  in  attendance. 

Mrs.  Janney  settled  herself  in  the  back  seat,  Suzanne, 
lifting  shimmering  skirts,  prepared  to  follow,  while 
Miss  Maitland  waited  humbly  to  take  what  room  was 
left  among  their  assembled  knees.  She  was  close  to 


Ferguson  who  was  helping  Suzanne  in,  and  looking 
up  at  the  sky  murmured  low  to  herself: 

"  What  a  glorious  night !  " 

Ferguson  heard  her  and  dropped  Suzanne's  arm. 

"  Isn't  it?  Too  good  to  waste.  Does  any  one  want 
to  walk  back  to  Grasslands?  " 

Suzanne,  one  foot  on  the  step,  stopped  and  turned 
to  him.  Her  lips  opened  to  speak,  and  then  she  saw 
the  back  of  his  head  and  heard  him  address  Esther : 

"How  about  it,  Miss  Maitland?  You're  a  walker, 
and  it's  only  a  step  by  the  wood  path.  We  can  be 
there  almost  as  soon  as  the  car." 

"  You'll  get  wet,"  said  Mrs.  Janney,  "  the  woods  will 
be  dripping." 

Mr.  Janney  remembered  his  youth  and  egged  them 
on: 

"  Only  underfoot  and  they  can  change  their  shoes. 
Dick's  right  —  it's  too  good  to  waste.  I'd  go  myself 
but  I'm  afraid  of  my  rheumatism.  Hurry  up,  Suzanne, 
and  get  in.  They  want  to  start." 

Miss  Maitland  said  she  wasn't  afraid  of  the  wet  and 
that  it  would  not  hurt  her  slippers.  Suzanne  entered 
the  car  and  sunk  into  her  corner.  As  it  rolled  away 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Janney  looked  back  at  the  two  figures  in 
the  moonlight  and  waved  good-byes.  Suzanne  sat  mo- 
tionless ;  all  the  way  home  she  said  nothing. 


37 


THE    CIGAR    BAND 

ESTHER  and  Ferguson  walked  across  the  open 
spaces  of  lawn  and  then  entered  the  woods. 
Ferguson  had  set  the  pace  as  slow,  but  he 
noticed  that  she  quickened  it,  faring  along  beside  him 
with  a  light,  swift  step.     He  also  noticed  that  she  was 
quiet,  as  she  had  been  at  dinner;  as  if  she  was   ab- 
stracted, not  like  herself. 

He  had  seen  a  good  deal  of  her  lately  and  thought 
of  her  a  good  deal  —  thought  many  things.  One  was 
that  she  was  interesting,  provocative  in  her  quiet  re- 
serve, not  as  easy  to  see  through  as  most  women.  She 
was  clever,  used  her  brains ;  he  had  formed  a  habit  of 
talking  to  her  on  matters  that  he  never  spoke  of  with 
other  girls.  And  he  admired  her  looks,  nothing  cheap 
about  them ;  "  thoroughbred  "  was  the  word  that  always 
rose  to  his  mind  as  he  greeted  her.  It  seemed  to  him 
all  wrong  that  she  should  be  working  for  a  wage  as 
the  Janneys'  hireling,  for,  though  he  was  "  advanced  " 
in  his  opinions,  when  it  came  to  women  there  was  a 
strain  of  sentimentality  in  his  make-up. 

38 


The  Cigar  Band 


On  the  wood  path  he  let  her  go  ahead,  seeing  her 
figure  spattered  with  white  lights  that  ran  across  her 
shoulders  and  up  and  down  her  back.  They  had  walked 
in  silence  for  some  minutes  when  he  suddenly  said: 

"What's  amiss?" 

She  slackened  her  gait  so  that  he  came  up  beside 
her. 

"  Amiss  ?     With  what,  with  whom  ?  " 

"You.     What's  wrong?     What's  on  your  mind?" 

A  shaft  of  moonlight  fell  through  a  break  in  the 
branches  and  struck  across  her  shoulder.  It  caught 
the  little  rosebuds  that  lay  against  her  neck  and  he  saw 
them  move  as  if  lifted  by  a  quick  breath. 

"  There's  nothing  on  my  mind.  Why  do  you  think 
there  is?  " 

"  Because  at  dinner  you  didn't  eat  anything  and 
were  as  quiet  as  if  there  was  an  embargo  on  the  Eng- 
lish language." 

"  Couldn't  I  be  just  stupid?  " 

He  turned  to  her,  seeing  her  face  a  pale  oval  against 
the  silver-moted  background : 

"  No.     Not  if  you  tried  your  darndest." 

Dick  Ferguson's  tongue  did  not  lend  itself  readily 
to  compliments.  He  gave  forth  this  one  with  a  serious- 
ness that  was  almost  solemn. 

She  laughed,  the  sound  suggesting  embarrassment, 
and  looked  away  from  him  her  eyes  on  the  ground. 

39 


Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

Just  in  front  of  them  the  woodland  roof  showed  a  gap, 
and  through  it  the  light  fell  across  the  path  in  a  glit- 
tering pool.  As  they  advanced  upon  it  she  gave  an 
exclamation,  stayed  him  with  an  outflung  arm,  and  bent 
to  the  moss  at  her  feet: 

"Oh,  wait  a  minute  —  How  exciting!  I've  found 
something." 

She  raised  herself,  illumined  by  the  radiance,  a  small 
object  that  showed  a  golden  glint  in  her  hand.  Then 
her  voice  came  deprecating,  disappointed: 

"  Oh,  what  a  fraud !     I  thought  it  was  a  ring." 

On  her  palm  lay  what  looked  like  a  heavy  enameled 
ring.  Ferguson  took  it  up;  it  was  of  paper,  a  cigar 
band  embossed  in  red  and  gold. 

"  Umph,"  he  said,  dropping  it  back,  "  I  don't  won- 
der you  were  fooled." 

"  It  was  right  there  on  the  moss  shining  in  the 
moonlight.  I  thought  I'd  found  something  wonder- 
ful." She  touched  it  with  a  careful  finger.  "It's 
new  and  perfectly  dry.  It's  only  been  here  since  the 
storm." 

"  Some  man  taking  a  short  cut  through  the  woods. 
Better  not  tell  Mrs.  Janney,  she  doesn't  like  trespass- 
ers." 

She  held  it  up,  moving  it  about  so  that  the  thick 
gold  tracery  shone: 

"  It's  really  very  pretty.  A  ring  like  that  wouldn't 
40 


The  Cigar  Band 


be  at  all  bad.     Look !  "  she  slipped  it  on  her  finger  and 
held  the  hand  out  studying  it  critically.     It  was  a  beau- 
tiful hand,  like  marble  against  the  blackness   of  tha 
trees,  the  band  encircling  the  third  finger. 
Ferguson  looked  and  then  said  slowly: 
"  You've  got  it  on  your  engagement  finger." 
"  Oh,  so  I  have."     Her  laugh  came  quick  as  if  to 
cover  confusion  and  she  drew  the  band  off,  saying,  as  she 
cast  it  daintily  from  her  finger-tips,  "  There  —  away 
with  it.     I  hate  to  be  fooled,"  and  started  on  at  a  brisk 
pace. 

Ferguson  bent  and  picked  it  up,  then  followed  her. 
He  said  nothing  for  quite  suddenly,  at  the  sight  of 
the  ring  on  her  finger,  he  had  been  invaded  by  a  curious 
agitation,  a  gripping,  upsetting,  disturbing  agitation. 
It  was  so  sharp,  so  unexpected,  so  compelling  in  its 
rapid  attack,  that  his  outside  consciousness  seemed 
submerged  by  it  and  he  trod  the  path  unaware  of  his 
surroundings. 

He  had  never  thought  of  Esther  Maitland  being 
engaged,  of  ever  marrying.  He  had  accepted  her  as 
some  one  who  would  always  be  close  at  hand,  always 
accessible,  always  in  town  or  country  to  be  found  at 
the  Janneys'.  And  the  ring  had  brought  to  his  mind 
with  a  startling  clearness  that  some  day  she  might 
marry.  Some  day  a  man  would  put  a  ring  on  that 
finger,  put  it  on  with  vows  and  kisses,  put  it  on  as  a 

41 


Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

sign  and  symbol  of  his  ownership.  Ferguson  felt  as 
if  he  had  been  shaken  from  an  agreeable  lethargy. 
He  was  filled  with  a  surge  of  indignation,  at  what  he 
could  not  exactly  tell.  He  felt  so  many  things  that  he 
did  not  know  which  he  felt  the  most  acutely,  but  a  sense 
of  grievance  was  mixed  with  jealousy  and  both  were 
dominated  by  an  angry  certainty  that  any  man  who 
aspired  to  her  would  be  unworthy. 

When  they  emerged  into  the  open  he  looked  at  her 
with  a  new  expression  —  questioning,  almost  fierce  and 
yet  humble.  Sauntering  at  her  side  across  the  lawn 
he  was  so  obsessed  with  these  conflicting  emotions  that 
he  said  not  a  word,  and  hardly  heard  hers.  The  Jan- 
neys  were  awaiting  them  on  the  balcony  steps  and  after 
an  exchange  of  good-nights  he  turned  back  to  the  wood 
trail  and  went  home.  In  his  room  he  threw  himself  on 
the  sofa  and  lay  there,  his  hands  clasped  behind  his 
head,  staring  at  the  ceiling.  It  was  long  after  mid- 
night when  he  went  to  bed,  and  before  he  did  so  he  put 
the  cigar  band  in  the  jewel  box  with  the  crystal  lid 
that  stood  on  the  bureau. 

The  Janney  party  trailed  into  the  house,  Sam  stop- 
ping to  lock  the  door  as  the  ladies  moved  to  the  stair 
foot.  Suzanne  went  up  with  a  curt  "  good-night "  to 
her  mother,  and  no  word  or  look  for  the  Secretary. 
Esther  did  not  appear  to  notice  it  and,  pausing  with 
her  hand  on  the  balustrade,  proffered  a  request  —  could 

42 


The  Cigar  Band 


she  have  to-morrow,  Saturday,  to  go  to  town?  She 
was  very  apologetic ;  her  day  off  was  Thursday  and  she 
had  no  right  to  ask  for  another,  but  a  friend  had  un- 
expectedly arrived  in  the  city,  would  be  there  for  a 
very  short  time  and  she  was  extremely  anxious  to  see 
her.  Mrs.  Janney  granted  the  favor  with  sleepy  good- 
nature and  Miss  Maitland,  very  grateful,  passed  up 
the  stairs,  the  old  people  dragging  slowly  in  her  wake, 
dropping  remarks  to  one  another  between  yawns. 

A  long  hall  crossed  the  upper  floor,  one  side  of 
which  was  given  over  to  the  Price  household.  Here 
were  Suzanne's  rooms,  Chapman's  empty  habitation, 
and  opposite  them  Bebita's  nurseries.  The  other  side 
was  occupied  on  the  front  by  Mrs.  Janney  and  the  Sec- 
retary with  a  line  of  guest  chambers  across  the  passage. 
In  a  small  room  between  his  wife's  and  his  step-daugh- 
ter's Mr.  Janney  had  ensconced  himself.  He  liked  the 
compact  space,  also  his  own  little  balcony  where  he 
had  his  steamer  chair  and  could  read  and  sun  himself. 
As  the  place  was  much  narrower  than  the  apartments 
on  either  side  a  short  branch  of  hall  connected  it  with 
the  main  corridor.  His  door,  at  the  end  of  this  hall, 
commanded  the  head  of  the  stairway. 

Mr.  Janney  had  a  restless  night;  he  knew  he  would 
have  for  he  had  taken  champagne  and  coffee  and  the 
combination  was  always  disturbing.  When  he  heard 
the  clocks  strike  twelve  he  resigned  himself  to  a  nuit 

43 


Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

blanche  and  lay  wide  awake  listening  to  the  queer 
sounds  that  a  house  gives  out  in  the  silent  hours. 
They  were  of  all  kinds,  gurglings  and  creaks  coming  out 
of  the  walls,  a  series  of  small  imperative  taps  which 
seemed  to  emerge  from  his  chest  of  drawers,  thrum- 
mings  and  thrillings  as  if  winged  things  were  shut  in 
the  closets. 

Half-past  twelve  and  one  struck  and  he  thought  he 
was  going  off  when  he  heard  a  new  sound  that  made  him 
listen  —  the  creaking  of  a  door.  He  craned  up  his  old 
tousled  head  and  gave  ear,  his  eyes  absently  fixed  on 
the  strips  and  spots  of  moonlight  that  lay  white  on 
the  carpet.  It  was  very  still,  not  a  whisper,  and  then 
suddenly  the  dogs  began  to  bark,  a  trail  of  yaps  and 
yelps  that  advanced  across  the  lawn.  Close  to  the 
house  they  subsided,  settling  down  into  growls  and  con- 
versational snufflings,  and  he  sank  back  on  his  pillow. 
But  he  was  full  of  nerves,  and  the  idea  suddenly  occurred 
to  him  that  Bebita  might  be  sick,  it  might  have  been 
the  nursery  door  that  had  opened  —  Annie  going  to 
fetch  Mrs.  Janney.  He'd  take  a  look  to  be  sure  —  if 
anything  was  wrong  there  would  be  a  light. 

He  climbed  out  of  bed  and  stole  into  the  hall.  No 
light  but  the  moon,  throwing  silvery  slants  across  the 
passage  and  the  stair-head,  and  relieved,  he  tiptoed 
back.  It  was  while  he  was  noiselessly  closing  his  door 
that  he  heard  something  which  made  him  stop,  still  as 

44 


The  Cigar  Band 


a  statue,  his  faculties  on  the  qui  vive,  his  eye  glued  to 
the  crack  —  a  footstep  was  ascending  the  stairs.  It 
was  as  soft  as  the  fall  of  snow,  so  light,  so  stealthy 
that  no  one,  unless  attentive  as  he  was,  would  have 
caught  it.  Yet  it  was  there,  now  and  then  a  muffled 
creak  of  the  boards  emphasizing  its  advance.  The 
corridor  at  the  head  of  the  stairs  was  as  bright  as  day 
and  with  his  eye  to  the  crack  he  waited,  his  heart  beat- 
ing high  and  hard. 

Rising  into  the  white  wash  of  moonlight  came  Su- 
zanne, moving  with  careful  softness,  her  eyes  sending 
piercing  glances  up  and  down  the  hall.  Her  expres- 
sion was  singular,  slightly  smiling,  with  something  sly 
in  its  sharpened  cautiousness.  As  she  rose  into  full 
view  he  saw  that  she  held  her  wrapper  bunched  against 
her  waist  with  one  hand  and  in  the  other  carried  Bebita's 
torch.  He  was  so  relieved  that  he  made  no  move  or 
sound,  but,  as  she  disappeared  in  the  direction  of  her 
room,  softly  closed  his  door  and  went  back  to  bed. 

She  had  evidently  left  something  downstairs,  a  book 
probably  —  he  could  not  see  what  she  had  in  the  folds 
of  the  wrapper  —  and  had  gone  to  get  it.  If  she  was 
wakeful  it  was  a  good  sign,  indicated  the  condition  of 
distressful  unease  her  mother  had  hoped  to  create. 
Such  alarm  might  lead  to  a  salutory  reform,  a  change, 
if  not  of  heart,  of  behavior.  Comforted  by  the  thought, 
he  turned  on  his  pillow  and  at  last  slept. 

45 


CHAPTER  V 

ROBBERY   IN    HIGH    PLACES 

THE  next  morning  Mr.  Janney  had  to  read  the 
papers  to  himself  for  Miss  Maitland  went  to 
town  on  the  8 :45.  He  sat  on  the  balcony  and 
missed  her,  for  the  Chicago  murder  had  developed  sev- 
eral new  features  and  he  had  no  one  to  talk  them  over 
with.  Suzanne,  who  never  came  down  to  breakfast,  ap- 
peared at  twelve  and  said  she  was  going  to  the  Fair- 
fax's to  lunch  with  bridge  afterward.  Though  she 
was  not  yet  aware  of  Mrs.  Janney's  intention  to  once 
more  come  to  her  aid,  her  gloom  and  ill-humor  had  dis- 
appeared. She  looked  bright,  almost  buoyant,  her  eyes 
showing  a  lively  gleam,  her  lips  parting  in  ready  smiles. 
She  was  going  to  the  beach  before  lunch,  and  left  with 
a  large  knitting  bag  slung  from  her  arm,  and  a  parasol 
tilted  over  her  shoulder.  It  was  not  until  she  was  half 
way  across  the  lawn  that  old  Sam  remembered  her 
nocturnal  appearance  which  he  had  intended  asking 
her  about. 

She  was  hardly  out  of  sight  when  Bebita  and  Annie 
came  into  view  on  the  drive,  returning  from  the  morn- 

46 


'Robbery  in  High  Places 


ing  bath.  Bebita  had  a  trouble  and  raced  up  the 
steps  to  tell  him  —  she  had  lost  her  torch.  She  was 
quite  disconsolate  over  it ;  Annie  had  said  they'd  surely 
find  it,  but  it  wasn't  anywhere,  and  she  knew  she'd  left 
it  on  the  nursery  table  when  she  went  to  bed.  In  the 
light  of  subsequent  events  Mr.  Janney  thought  his  an- 
swer to  the  child  had  been  dictated  by  Providence. 
Why  he  didn't  say,  "  Your  mother  knows ;  she  had  it 
last  night,"  he  never  could  explain ;  nor  what  prompted 
the  words,  "  Ask  your  mother ;  she's  probably  seen  it 
somewhere."  Bebita  accepted  the  suggestion  with  some 
hope  and  then,  hearing  that  her  mother  would  not  be 
home  until  the  afternoon,  fell  into  momentary  dejection. 

Mrs.  Janney  was  to  take  her  accustomed  drive  at 
four  and  her  husband  said  he  would  go  with  her.  Some 
time  before  the  hour  he  appeared  on  the  balcony,  cool 
and  calm,  his  poise  restored  after  the  trials  of  the  pre- 
vious day  and  the  disturbed  night,  and  sat  down  to  wait. 
Inside  the  house  his  wife  was  busy.  Several  impor- 
tant papers  had  come  on  the  morning  mail  and  these, 
with  the  opals,  she  decided  to  put  in  the  safe  before 
starting.  After  they  were  stored  in  their  shelves  and 
the  opals  back  in  their  box  she  could  not  resist  a  look 
at  her  emeralds,  of  all  her  material  possessions  the 
dearest.  She  lifted  the  purple  velvet  case  and  opened 
it  —  the  emeralds  were  not  there. 

She  stood  motionless,  experiencing  an  inner  sense 

47 


Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

of  upheaval,  her  heart  leaping  and  then  sinking  down, 
her  body  shaken  by  a  tremor  such  as  the  earth  feels 
when  rocked  by  a  seismic  throe.  She  tried  to  hold 
herself  steady  and  opened  the  other  cases  —  the  two 
pearl  necklaces,  the  sapphire  riviere,  the  diamond  and 
ruby  tiara.  As  each  revealed  its  emptiness  her  hands 
began  to  tremble  until,  when  she  reached  the  white  suede 
box  of  the  black  pearl  pendant,  they  shook  so  she  could 
hardly  find  the  clasp.  Everything  was  gone  —  a  clean 
sweep  had  been  made  of  the  Janney  jewels. 

Moving  with  a  firm  step,  she  went  to  the  balcony.  In 
the  doorway  she  came  to  a  halt  and  said  quietly  to  her 
husband : 

"  Sam,  my  jewels  have  been  stolen." 

Air.  Janney  squared  round,  stared  at  her,  and  ejacu- 
lated in  feeble  denial: 

"  Oh  no!  " 

"  Oh  yes,"  she  answered  with  the  same  note  of  grim 
control,  "  Come  and  see." 

When  he  saw,  his  old  veined  hands  shaking  as  they 
dropped  the  rifled  cases,  he  turned  and  blankly  faced 
his  wife  who  was  watching  him  with  a  level  scrutiny. 

"  Mary ! "  was  all  he  could  falter.  "  Mary,  my 
dear!  " 

"  Last  night,"  she  nodded,  "  when  we  were  out.  The 
place  was  almost  empty.  I  '11  call  the  servants." 

She  went  to  the  foot  of  the  stairs  and  called  Elspeth, 
48 


Robbery  in  High  Places 


old  Sam,  bewildered  by  this  sudden  catastrophe,  emerg- 
ing from  the  safe,  as  pale  and  shaken  as  if  he  was  the 
burglar. 

"  Last  night,  of  course  last  night,"  he  murmured,  try- 
ing to  think.  "  They  were  here  at  eight.  I  saw  them, 
we  saw  them,  anybody  could  have  seen  them." 

Elspeth  appeared  on  the  stairs  and  came  running 
down,  Mrs.  Janney's  orders  delivered  like  pistol  shots 
upon  her  advance:  , 

"  I've  been  robbed.  The  safe's  been  opened  and  all 
the  jewels  are  gone.  Go  and  call  the  servants,  every 
one  of  them.  Tell  them  to  come  here  at  once." 

Elspeth  knew  enough  to  make  no  reply,  and,  with  a 
terrified  face,  scudded  past  her  mistress  to  the  kitchen. 
Mrs.  Janney,  her  attention  attracted  by  sounds  of  dis- 
tracted amazement  from  her  husband,  mobilized  him : 

"  Go  and  get  Miss  Maitland.  We'll  have  to  send  for 
detectives.  She  can  do  it  —  she  doesn't  lose  her  head." 

Mr.  Janney,  too  stunned  to  be  anything  but  meekly 
obedient,  trotted  off  down  the  hall  to  Miss  Maitland's 
study,  then  stopped  and  came  back: 

"  She's  in  town ;  she  hasn't  got  back  yet." 

"  Teh !  "  Mrs.  Janney  gave  a  sound  of  exaspera- 
tion. "I'd  forgotten  it.  How  maddening  1  You'll 
have  to  do  it.  Go  in  there  to  the  'phone  " —  she  indi- 
cated the  telephone  closet  at  the  end  of  the  hall.  "  Call 
up  the  Kissam  Agency  —  that's  the  best.  We  had 

49 


Miss  Mcdiland  Private  Secretary 

them  when  the  bell  boy  at  Atlantic  City  stole  my  sables. 
Get  Kissam  himself  and  tell  him  what's  happened  and 
to  take  hold  at  once  —  to  come  now,  not  to  waste  a 
minute.  And  don't  you  either  —  hurry  !  — " 

Mr.  Janncy  hasted  away  and  shut  himself  in  the 
telephone  closet,  as  the  servants,  marshaled  by  Dixon 
and  Elspeth,  entered  in  a  scared  group.  They  had 
been  taking  tea  in  their  own  dining  room  when  Elspeth 
burst  in  with  the  direful  news.  Eight  of  them  were 
old  employees  —  had  been  years  in  Mrs.  Janney's  serv- 
ice. Hannah,  the  cook,  had  been  with  her  nearly  as 
long  as  Dixon;  Isaac,  the  footman,  was  her  nephew. 
Dixon's  large,  heavy- jowled  face  was  stamped  with 
aghast  concern ;  the  kitchen  maid  was  in  tears. 

Mrs.  Janney  addressed  them  like  what  she  was  —  a 
general  in  command  of  her  forces : 

"  My  jewels  have  been  stolen.  Some  time  last  night 
the  safe  was  opened  and  they  were  taken.  It  is  my 
order  that  every  one  of  you  stay  in  the  house,  not 
holding  communication  with  any  one  outside,  until 
the  police  have  been  here  and  made  a  thorough  investi- 
gation. Your  rooms  and  your  trunks  will  have  to  be 
searched  and  I  expect  you  to  submit  to  it  willingly  with 
no  grumbling." 

Dixon  answered  her: 

"  It's  what  we'd  expect,  Madam.  Me  and  Isaac  both 
know  the  combination  and  we'd  want  to  have  our  own 

50 


Robbery  in  High  Places 


characters  cleared  as  much  as  we'd  want  you  to  get 
back  your  valuables." 

Hannah  spoke : 

"  We'd  welcome  it,  Mrs.  Janney.  There's  none  of 
us  wants  any  suspicion  restin'  on  'em." 

Delia,  the  housemaid  with  the  inflamed  eye,  took  it 
up.  She  was  a  newcomer  in  the  household,  and  in  her 
fright  her  brogue  acquired  an  unaccustomed  richness: 

*'  God  knows  I  was  in  my  room  at  nine,  and  not  a 
move  out  of  me  till  sivin  the  nixt  mornin'  and  that's 
to-day." 

Mr.  Janney,  issuing  from  the  telephone  closet,  here 
interrupted  them.  He  addressed  his  wife: 

"  It's  all  right.  I  got  Kissam  himself.  He'll  be 
here  on  the  5 :30." 

She  answered  with  a  nod  and  was  turning  for  further 
instructions  to  Dixon  when  Suzanne  entered  from  the 
balcony.  Up  to  that  moment  Mr.  Janney  had  for- 
gotten all  about  his  nocturnal  vision ;  now  it  came  back 
upon  him  with  a  shattering  impact. 

He  felt  his  knees  turn  to  water  and  his  heart  sink 
down  to  inner,  unplumbed  depths  in  his  anatomy.  He 
grasped  at  the  back  of  a  chair  and  for  once  his  man- 
ners deserted  him,  for  he  dropped  into  it  though  his 
wife  was  standing. 

"  What's  all  this  ?  "  said  Suzanne,  coming  to  a  halt, 
her  glance  shifting  from  her  mother  to  the  group  of 

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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

solemn  servants.  She  looked  very  pretty,  her  face 
flushed,  the  blue  tint  of  her  linen  dress  harmonizing 
graciously  with  her  pink  cheeks  and  corn-colored  hair. 

Mrs.  Janney  explained.  As  she  did  so  old  Sam,  his 
face  as  gray  as  his  beard,  watched  his  stepdaughter 
with  a  furtive  eye.  Suzanne  appeared  amazed,  quite 
horror-stricken.  She  too  sank  into  a  chair,  and 
listened,  open-mouthed,  her  feet  thrust  out  before  her, 
the  high  heels  planted  on  the  rug. 

"  Why,  what  an  awful  thing !  "  was  her  final  comment. 
Then  as  if  seized  by  a  sudden  thought  she  turned  on 
Dixon. 

"  Were  all  the  windows  and  doors  locked  last  night?  " 

"  All  on  the  lower  floor,  Mrs.  Price.  Me  and  Isaac 
went  round  them  before  we  started  for  the  village,  and 
there's  not  a  night  — " 

Suzanne  cut  him  off  brusquely: 

"  Then  how  could  any  one  get  in  to  do  it?  " 

There  was  a  curious,  surging  movement  among  the 
servants,  a  mutter  of  protest.  Mr.  Janney  intervened : 

'*  You'd  better  let  matters  alone,  Suzanne.  Detec- 
tives are  coming  and  they'll  inquire  into  all  that  sort  of 
thing." 

"  I  suppose  I  can  ask  a  question  if  I  like,"  she  said 
pertly,  then  suddenly ;  looking  about  the  hall,  "  Where's 
Miss  Maitland?" 

"  In  town,"  said  her  mother. 
52 


Robbery  in  High  Places 


"Oh —  she  went  in,  did  she?  I  thought  her  day 
off  was  Thursday." 

"She  asked  for  to-day  —  what  does  it  matter?" 
Mrs.  Janney  was  irritated  by  these  irrelevancies  and 
turned  to  the  servants :  "  Now  I've  instructed  you  and 
for  your  own  sakes  obey  what  I've  said.  Not  a  man 
or  woman  leaves  the  house  till  after  the  police  have  made 
their  search.  That  applies  to  the  garage  men  and 
the  gardeners.  Dixon,  you  can  tell  them  — "  she 
stopped,  the  crunch  of  motor  wheels  on  the  gravel  had 
caught  her  ear.  "  There's  some  one  coming.  I'm  not 
at  home,  Dixon." 

The  servants  huddled  out  to  their  own  domain  and 
Dixon,  with  a  resumption  of  his  best  hall-door  manner, 
went  to  ward  off  the  visitor.  But  it  was  only  Miss 
Maitland  returning  from  town.  She  had  several  small 
packages  in  her  hands  and  looked  pale  and  tired. 

The  news  that  greeted  her  —  Mrs.  Janney  was  her 
informant  —  left  her  as  blankly  amazed  as  it  had  the 
others.  She  was  shocked,  asked  questions,  could 
hardly  believe  it.  Old  Sam  found  the  opportunity  a 
good  one  to  study  Suzanne,  who  appeared  extremely  in- 
terested in  the  Secretary's  remarks.  Once,  when  Miss 
Maitland  spoke  of  keeping  some  of  her  books  and  the 
house-money  in  the  safe,  he  saw  his  stepdaughter's  eye- 
lids flutter  and  droop  over  the  bird-bright  fixity  of 
her  glance. 

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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

It  was  at  this  stage  that  Bebita  ran  into  the  hall 
and  made  a  joyous  rush  for  her  mother: 

"  Oh,  Mummy,  I've  waited  and  waited  for  you," — 
she  flung  herself  against  Suzanne's  side  in  soft  collison. 
"  I've  lost  my  torch  and  I've  asked  everybody  and  no- 
body's seen  it.  Do  you  know  where  it  is?  " 

Suzanne  arched  her  eyebrows  in  playful  surprise,  then 
putting  a  finger  under  the  rounded  chin,  lifted  her 
daughter's  face  and  kissed  her,  softly,  sweetly,  ten- 
derly ; 

"  Darling,  I'm  so  sorry,  but  I  haven't  seen  it  any- 
where. If  you  can't  find  it  I'll  buy  you  another." 


CHAPTER  VI 

POOR  MR.  JANNEY! 

THE  peace  and  aristocratic  calm  of  the  Janney 
household  was  disrupted.  Into  its  dignified 
quietude  burnt  an  irruption  of  alien  activity 
and  the  great  white  light  of  publicity.  Kissam  with 
his  minions  came  that  evening  and  reporters  followed 
like  bloodhounds  on  the  scent.  Scenes  were  enacted 
similar  to  those  Mr.  Janney  had  read  in  novels  and 
witnessed  at  the  theater,  but  which,  in  his  most  fevered 
imaginings,  he  had  never  thought  could  transpire  in 
his  own  home.  It  was  unreal,  like  a  nightmare,  a 
phantasmagoria  of  interviews  with  terrified  servants, 
trampings  up  and  down  stairs,  strange  men  all  over 
the  place,  reporters  on  the  steps,  the  telephone  bell 
and  the  front  door  bell  ringing  ceaselessly.  Every- 
body was  in  a  state  of  tense  excitement  except  Mr. 
Janney  whose  condition  was  that  of  still,  frozen  misery. 
There  were  moments  when  he  was  almost  sorry  he'd  mar- 
ried again. 

After  introductory  parleys  with  the  heads  of  the 
house   the  searchlight   of  inquiry  was  turned  on  the 

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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

servants.  Their  movements  on  the  fateful  night  were 
subject  of  special  attention.  When  Kissam  elicited 
the  fact  that  they  had  not  returned  from  the  village 
till  nearly  midnight  he  fell  on  it  with  ominous  avidity. 
Dixon,  however,  had  a  satisfactory  explanation,  which 
he  offered  with  a  martyred  air  of  forbearance.  Mr. 
Price's  man,  Willitts,  had  that  morning  come  up  from 
town  to  Cedar  Brook,  the  next  station  along  the  line. 
In  the  afternoon  he  had  biked  over  to  see  them  and, 
hearing  of  their  plan  to  visit  the  movies,  had  arranged 
to  meet  them  there.  This  he  did,  afterward  taking 
them  to  the  Mermaid  Ice  Cream  Parlors  where  he  had 
treated  them  to  supper.  They  had  left  there  about 
half  past  eleven,  Willitts  going  back  to  Cedar  Brook 
and  the  rest  of  them  walking  home  to  Grasslands. 

From  the  women  left  in  the  house  little  was  to  be 
gathered.  This  was  unfortunate  as  the  natural  sup- 
position was  that  the  burglary  had  been  committed 
during  the  hours  when  they  were  alone  there.  Both, 
feeling  ill,  had  retired  early,  Delia  at  about  half-past 
eight,  going  immediately  to  bed  and  quickly  falling 
asleep.  Hannah  was  later;  about  nine,  she  thought. 
It  was  very  quiet,  not  a  sound,  except  that  after  she 
got  to  her  room  she  heard  the  dogs  barking.  They 
made  a  great  row  at  first,  running  down  across  the 
lawn,  then  they  quieted,  "  easing  off  with  sort  of  whines 
and  yaps,  like  it  was  somebody  they  knew."  She  had 

56 


Poor  Mr.  Janneyl 


not  bothered  to  look  out  of  the  window  because  she 
thought  it  was  one  of  the  work  people  from  the  neigh- 
borhood, making  a  short  cut  through  the  grounds. 

In  the  matter  of  the  safe  all  was  incomprehensible  and 
mysterious.  Five  people  in  the  house  knew  the  com- 
bination —  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Janney,  Dixon  and  Isaac  and 
Miss  Maitland.  Mrs.  Janney  was  as  certain  of  the 
honesty  of  her  servants  and  her  Secretary  as  she  was 
of  her  own.  She  rather  resented  the  detectives'  close 
questioning  of  the  latter.  But  Miss  Maitland  showed 
no  hesitation  or  annoyance,  replying  clearly  and 
promptly  to  everything  they  asked.  She  kept  the  house 
money  and  some  of  her  account  books  in  the  safe  and 
on  the  second  of  the  month  —  five  days  before  the  rob- 
bery —  had  taken  out  such  money  as  she  had  there 
to  pay  the  working  people  who  did  not  receive  checks. 
She  managed  the  financial  side  of  the  establishment, 
she  explained,  paying  the  wages  and  bills  and  drawing 
the  checks  for  Mrs.  Janney's  signature. 

Questioned  about  her  movements  that  afternoon,  her 
answers  showed  the  same  intelligent  frankness.  She 
had  spent  the  two  hours  after  lunch  altering  the  dress 
she  was  to  wear  that  evening.  As  it  was  very  warm 
in  her  room  she  had  taken  part  of  it  to  her  study 
on  the  ground  floor.  When  she  had  finished  her  work 
—  about  four  —  she  had  gone  for  a  walk  returning 
just  before  the  storm.  After  that  she  had  retired  to 

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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

her  room  and  stayed  there  until  she  came  down  to  go 
to  Mr.  Ferguson's  dinner. 

The  safe  and  its  surroundings  were  subjected  to  a 
minute  inspection  which  revealed  nothing.  Neither 
window  had  been  tampered  with,  the  locks  were  intact, 
the  sills  unscratched,  the  floor  showed  no  foot-mark. 
There  were  no  traces  of  finger  prints  either  upon  the 
door  or  the  metal-clamped  boxes  in  which  the  jewel 
cases  were  kept.  The  mended  chair  was  just  as  Mrs. 
Janney  remembered  it,  set  between  the  safe  and  the 
window,  in  the  way  of  any  one  passing  along  the  hall. 

It  was  on  Sunday  afternoon  —  twenty-four  hours 
after  the  discovery  —  that  Dick  Ferguson  appeared 
with  one  of  his  gardeners,  who  had  a  story  to  tell.  On 
Friday  night  the  man  had  been  to  a  card  party  in  the 
garage  of  a  neighboring  estate  and  had  come  home 
late  "  across  lots."  His  final  short  cut  had  been 
through  Grasslands,  where  he  had  passed  round  by  the 
back  of  the  house.  He  thought  the  time  would  be 
on  toward  one-thirty.  Skirting  the  kitchen  wing  he 
had  seen  a  light  in  a  ground  floor  window,  a  window 
which  he  was  able  to  indicate.  He  described  the  light 
as  not  very  strong  and  white,  not  yellow  like  a  lamp 
or  candle.  As  he  looked  at  it  he  noticed  that  it  dimin- 
ished in  brightness  as  if  it  was  withdrawn,  moved  away 
down  a  hall  or  into  a  room.  He  could  see  no  figure, 
simply  the  lit  oblong  of  the  window,  with  the  pattern 

58 


Poor  Mr.  Janney! 


of  a  lace  curtain  over  it,  and  anyway  he  hadn't  no- 
ticed much,  supposing  it  to  be  one  of  the  servants  com- 
ing home  late  like  himself. 

This  settled  the  hour  of  the  robbery.  It  had  not  been 
committed  when  the  place  was  almost  deserted,  but  when 
all  its  occupants  were  housed  and  sleeping.  The  win- 
dow, pointed  out  by  the  man,  was  directly  opposite 
the  safe  door,  the  light  as  he  described  it  could  only  have 
been  made  by  an  electric  lantern  or  torch,  its  gradual 
diminishment  caused  by  its  removal  into  the  recess  of 
the  safe. 

If  before  this  Mr.  Janney's  mental  state  was  pain- 
ful, it  now  became  agonized.  He  was  afraid  to  be 
with  the  detectives  for  fear  of  what  he  would  hear,  and 
he  was  afraid  to  leave  them  alone,  for  fear  of  what  he 
might  miss.  When  Mrs.  Janney  conferred  with  Kissam 
he  sat  by  her  side,  swallowing  on  a  dry  throat,  and 
trying  to  control  the  inner  trembling  that  attacked  him 
every  time  the  man  opened  his  lips.  He  gave  way  to 
secret,  futile  cursings  of  the  jewels,  distracted  prayers 
that  they  never  might  be  found.  For  if  they  were,  the 
theft  might  be  traced  to  its  author  —  and  then  what? 
It  would  be  the  end  of  his  wife,  her  proud  head  would 
be  lowered  forever,  her  strong  heart  broken.  Sleep 
entirely  forsook  him  and  the  people  who  came  to  call 
treated  him  with  a  soothing  gentleness  as  if  they  thought 
he  was  dying. 

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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

His  misery  reached  a  climax  when  something  he  re- 
membered, and  every  one  else  had  forgotten,  came  to 
light.  It  was  one  day  in  the  library  when  Kissam 
asked  Mrs.  Janney  if  there  had  ever  been  any  one  else 
in  the  house  —  a  discharged  employee  or  relation  — 
who  had  known  the  combination.  Mrs.  Janney  said  no 
and  then  recollected  that  Chapman  Price  did,  he  had 
kept  his  tobacco  in  the  safe  as  the  damp  spoiled  it. 
Kissam  showed  no  interest  —  he  knew  Chapman  Price 
was  her  son-in-law  and  was  no  longer  an  inmate  —  and 
then  suddenly  asked  what  had  been  done  with  the  writ- 
ten combination. 

At  that  question  Mr.  Janney  felt  like  a  shipwrecked 
mariner  deprived  of  the  spar  to  which  he  has  been 
clinging.  He  saw  his  wife's  face  charged  with  aroused 
interest  —  she'd  forgotten  it,  it  was  in  Mr.  Janney's 
desk,  had  always  been  kept  there.  They  went  to  the 
desk  and  found  it  under  a  sheaf  of  papers  in  a  drawer 
that  was  unlocked.  Kissam  looked  at  it,  felt  and 
studied  the  papers,  then  put  it  back  in  a  silence  that 
made  Mr.  Janney  feel  sick. 

After  that  he  was  prepared  for  anything  to  happen, 
but  nothing  did.  He  got  some  comfort  from  the 
papers,  which  assumed  the  robbery  to  have  been  an 
"  outside  job  " ;  no  one  in  the  house  fitting  the  character 
of  a  suspect.  It  was  the  work  of  experts,  who  had  en- 
tered by  the  second  story,  and  were  of  that  class  of 

60 


Poor  Mr.  Janney! 


burglar  known  as  "  tumblers."  Mr.  Janney,  who  had 
never  heard  of  a  "  tumbler "  save  as  a  vessel  from 
which  to  drink,  now  learned  that  it  was  a  crackman, 
who  from  a  sensitive  touch  and  long  training,  could 
manipulate  the  locks  and  work  out  the  combination. 
He  found  himself  thanking  heaven  that  such  men  ex- 
isted. 

When  a  week  passed  and  nothing  of  moment  came  to 
the  surface,  the  Janney  jewel  robbery  slipped  back  to 
the  inside  page,  and,  save  in  the  environs  of  Berkeley, 
ceased  to  occupy  the  public  mind.  Mr.  Janney  could 
once  more  walk  in  his  own  grounds  without  fear  of 
reporters  leaping  on  him  from  the  shrubberies  or  emerg- 
ing from  behind  statues  and  garden  benches.  His  tense 
state  relaxed,  he  began  to  breathe  freely,  and,  in  this 
restoration  to  the  normal,  he  was  able  to  think  of 
what  he  ought  to  do.  Somehow,  some  day,  he  would 
have  to  face  Suzanne  with  his  knowledge  and  get  the 
jewels  back.  It  would  be  a  day  of  fearful  reckoning; 
it  was  so  appalling  to  contemplate  that  he  shrank  from 
it  even  in  thought.  He  said  he  wasn't  strong  enough 
yet,  would  work  up  to  it,  get  some  more  sleep  and  his 
nerves  in  better  shape.  And  she  might  —  there  was  al- 
ways the  hope  —  she  might  get  frightened  and  return 
them  herself. 

So  he  rested  in  a  sort  of  breathing  spell  between  the 
first,  grinding  agony  and  the  formidably  looming  fu- 

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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

ture.  But  it  was  not  to  last  —  events  were  shaping  to 
an  end  that  he  had  never  suspected  and  that  came  upon 
him  like  a  bolt  from  the  blue. 

It  happened  one  afternoon  eight  days  after  the  rob- 
bery. Mrs.  Janney  and  Suzanne  had  gone  for  a  drive 
and  he  was  alone  in  the  library,  listlessly  going  over 
the  morning  papers.  His  zest  in  the  news  had  left 
him  —  the  Chicago  murder  offered  no  interest,  the 
stabbed  policeman  in  desperate  case  from  blood  poison- 
ing, his  assailant  still  at  large,  could  not  conjure  away 
his  dark  anxieties.  With  his  glasses  dangling  from  his 
finger,  his  eyes  on  the  green  sweep  of  the  lawn,  he  was 
roused  by  a  knock  on  the  door.  It  was  Dixon  an- 
nouncing Mr.  Kissam,  who  had  walked  up  from  the 
village  and  wanted  to  see  him. 

Kissam,  with  a  brief  phrase  of  greeting,  closed  the 
door  and  sat  down.  Mr.  Janney  thought  his  manner, 
which  was  always  hard  and  brusque,  was  softened  by 
a  suggestion  of  confidence,  something  of  intimacy  as 
one  who  speaks  man  to  man.  It  made  him  nervous  and 
his  uneasiness  was  not  relieved  in  the  least  by  the  de- 
tective's words. 

"  I'm  glad  to  find  you  alone,  Mr.  Janney.  I  'phoned 
up  and  heard  from  Dixon  that  the  ladies  were  out  and 
that's  why  I  came.  I  want  to  consult  you  before  I  say 
anything  to  Mrs.  Janney." 

"  That's  quite  right,"  said  Mr.  Janney,  then  added 
62 


Poor  Mr.  Janney! 


with  a  feeble  attempt  at  lightness,  "  Are  you,  as  the 
children  say,  getting  any  warmer  f  " 

"  We're  very  warm.  In  fact  I  think  we've  almost  got 
there.  But  it's  rather  a  ticklish  situation." 

Mr.  Janney  did  not  answer ;  he  glanced  at  his  shoes, 
then  at  the  silver  on  the  desk.  For  the  moment  he  was 
too  perturbed  to  look  at  Kissam's  shrewd,  attentive 
face. 

"  It's  so  out  of  the  ordinary  run,"  the  man  went  on, 
"  and  so  much  is  involved  that  I  decided  not  to  move 
without  first  telling  you.  The  family  being  so  promi- 
nent — " 

"  The  family ! "  Mr.  Janney  spoke  before  he 
thought,  his  limp  hands  suddenly  clenching  on  the  arms 
of  the  chair. 

The  detective's  eyes  steadied  on  the  gripped  fingers. 

"What  do  you  mean?  Let  me  have  it  straight," 
said  the  old  man  huskily. 

Kiss  am  put  his  hand  in  his  hip  pocket  and  drew  out 
an  electric  torch  which  he  put  on  the  desk. 

"  This  torch  I  myself  found  two  days  ago  in  a  desk 
in  Mrs.  Price's  room.  It  was  pushed  back  in  a  drawer 
which  was  full  of  letters  and  papers.  It  fits  the  de- 
scription of  the  torch  that  was  lost  by  Mrs.  Price's 
little  girl." 

Mr.  Janney's  head  sunk  forward  on  his  breast,  and 
Kissam  knew  now  that  his  suspicions  were  correct  and 

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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

that  the  old  man  had  known  all  along.     He  was  sorry 
for  him: 

"  Mrs.  Price  not  being  your  daughter,  Mr.  Janney, 
I  decided  to  come  to  you.  I  suspected  her  after  the 
second  day  and  I'll  tell  you  why.  I  had  a  private  in- 
terview with  that  woman  Elspeth,  Mrs.  Janney's  maid, 
and  she  told  me  of  a  quarrel  she  had  overheard  be- 
tween Mrs.  Janney  and  her  daughter.  The  subject  of 
the  quarrel  was  money,  Mrs.  Price  asldng  for  a  large 
sum  to  meet  certain  debts  and  losses  in  the  stock  market 
which  Mrs.  Janney  refused  to  give  her.  That  supplied 
the  motive  and  gave  me  the  lead.  The  loss  of  the  torch 
was  also  significant.  The  child  was  confident  —  and 
children  are  very  accurate  —  that  she  had  left  it  on 
the  table  in  her  nursery  when  she  went  to  bed.  The 
proximity  of  the  two  rooms  made  the  theft  of  the  torch 
an  easy  matter.  What  puzzled  me  was  how  Mrs.  Price 
had  gained  access  to  the  safe,  but  that  was  cleared  up 
when  the  written  combination  was  found  in  your  desk 
here;  and  finally  I  ran  across  what  I  should  call  per- 
fectly conclusive  evidence  in  Mrs.  Price's  room.  I 
don't  refer  only  to  the  torch,  but  to  the  fact  that 
a  wrapper  that  was  hanging  in  the  back  of  one 
of  the  closets  showed  a  smudge  of  varnish  on  the 
skirt." 

Mr.  Janney  leaned  forward  over  his  clasped  hands, 
feeling  wan  and  shriveled. 

64 


Poor  Mr.  Janney! 


"  If  your  surmise  is  right,"  he  said,  "  where  has  she 
put  them?" 

"  If !  "  echoed  the  other.  "  I  don't  see  any  if  about 
it.  You  can't  suspect  either  of  the  men  servants  — 
reliable  people  of  established  character  —  nor  Miss 
Maitland.  A  girl  in  her  position  —  even  if  she  hap- 
pened to  be  dishonest,  which  I  don't  for  a  moment  think 
she  is  —  wouldn't  tackle  a  job  as  big  as  that.  Come, 
Mr.  Jannej,  -we  don't  need  to  dodge  around  the  stump. 
As  soon  as  I'd  spoken  I  saw  you  thought  Mrs.  Price 
had  done  it." 

The  old  man  nodded  and  said  sadly : 

"  I  did." 

"  Would  you  mind  telling  me  why  you  did?  " 

There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  tell,  and  he  told, 
the  detective  suppressing  a  grin  of  triumph.  It  cleared 
up  everything,  was  as  conclusive  as  if  they'd  seen  her 
commit  the  act. 

"  As  for  where  she  put  them,"  he  said,  "  she  may 
have  a  hiding  place  in  the  house  that  we  haven't  dis- 
covered, or  cached  them  outside.  In  matters  like  this 
women  sometimes  show  a  remarkable  cunning.  I've 
looked  up  her  movements  on  the  Saturday  and  it's 
possible  she  hid  them  somewhere  in  the  woods.  She 
left  the  house  at  twelve,  carrying  a  silk  work  bag, 
walked  past  Ferguson's  place  and  talked  there  with  him 
in  the  garden  for  about  fifteen  minutes,  went  on  to 

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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

the  beach,  sat  there  a  while,  and  then  walked  to  the 
Fairfax  house  on  the  bluff,  where  she  stayed  to  lunch, 
coming  back  here  about  half-past  four.  She  had  am- 
ple opportunity  during  that  time  and  in  the  places  she 
passed  through  to  find  a  cache  for  them." 

Mr.  Janney  raised  a  gray,  pitiful  face: 

"  Mr.  Kissam,  if  Mrs.  Janney  knew  this  it  would  kill 
her." 

Kissam  gave  back  an  understanding  look: 

"  That's  why  I  came  to  you." 

"  Then  it  must  stop  here  —  with  me."  The  old  man 
spoke  with  a  sudden,  fierce  vehemence.  "  It  can't  go 
further.  The  girl's  been  a  torment  and  a  trouble  for 
years.  I  won't  let  her  end  by  breaking  her  mother's 
heart,  bringing  her  gray  hairs  with  sorrow  to  the  grave. 
Good  God,  I'd  rather  say  I  did  it  myself." 

"  There's  no  need  for  that.  We  can  let  it  fizzle 
out,  die  down  gradually."  He  gave  a  slight,  sardonic 
smile.  "  I've  happened  on  this  sort  of  thing  before, 
Mr.  Janney.  The  rich  have  their  skeletons  in  the  closet, 
and  I've  helped  to  keep  'em  there,  shut  in  tight." 

"  Then  for  heaven's  sake  do  it  in  this  case  —  help 
me  hide  this  skeleton.  Keep  up  the  search  for  a  while 
so  that  Mrs.  Janney  won't  suspect  anything ;  play  your 
part.  Mr.  Kissam,  if  you'll  aid  me  in  keeping  this  dark 
there's  nothing  I  wouldn't  do  to  repay  you." 

Kissam  disclaimed  all  desire  for  reward.  His  pro- 

66 


Poor  Mr.  Janney! 


fessional  pride  was  justified;  he  had  made  good  to  his 
own  satisfaction.  And,  as  he  had  said,  the  case  pre- 
sented no  startling  novelty  to  his  seasoned  experience. 
Many  times  he  had  helped  distracted  families  to  sup- 
press ugly  revelations,  presented  an  impregnable  front 
to  the  press,  and  seen,  with  a  cynical  amusement, 
columns  shrink  to  paragraphs  and  the  public's  curiosity 
fade  to  the  vanishing  point.  He  promised  he  would 
aid  in  the  slow  quenching  of  the  Janney  sensation,  grad- 
ually let  it  flicker  out,  ke'ep  his  men  on  the  job  for  a 
while  longer  for  Mrs.  Janney's  benefit,  and  finally  let  the 
matter  decline  to  the  status  of  an  "  unsolved  mystery." 

As  to  the  restoration  of  the  jewels  he  gave  advice. 
Say  nothing  for  a  time,  sit  quiet  and  give  no  sign.  If 
she  was  as  thoroughly  scared  as  she  ought  to  be,  she 
would  probably  return  them  —  they  would  wake  one 
fine  morning  and  find  everything  back  in  the  safe.  If, 
however,  she  tried  to  realize  on  them  it  would  be  easy 
to  trace  them  —  he  would  be  on  the  watch  —  and  then 
Mr.  Janney  could  confront  her  with  his  knowledge  and 
have  her  under  his  thumb  forever. 

Mr.  Janney  was  extremely  grateful  —  not  at  the 
prospect  of  having  Suzanne  under  his  thumb,  that  was 
too  complete  a  reversal  of  positions  to  be  comfortable 
—  but  at  the  detective's  kindly  comprehension  and  aid. 
With  tears  in  his  eyes  he  wrung  Kissam's  hand  and 
honored  him  by  a  personal  escort  to  the  front  door. 

67 


CHAPTER  VII 

CONCEENING   DETECTIVES 

KISSAM  kept  his  word  and  the  interest  in  the 
Janney  robbery  began  to  languish.  Detec- 
tives still  came  and  went,  morning  trains  still 
disgorged  reporters,  but  it  was  not  as  it  had  been. 
The  first,  fine  careless  rapture  of  the  chase  was  over; 
nothing  new  was  discovered,  nothing  old  developed. 
The  house  settled  back  to  its  methodical  regime,  the 
faces  of  its  inmates  lost  their  looks  of  harassed  dis- 
tress. 

Mr.  Janney,  though  much  pacified,  was  not  yet 
restored  to  his  normal  poise.  His  wife  was  now  the 
object  of  his  secret  attention,  for  he  knew  her  to  be  a 
very  sharp  and  observant  person,  and  the  fear  that 
she  might  "  catch  on  "  haunted  him.  It  was  therefore 
very  upsetting  when  she  remarked  one  morning  at  break- 
fast that  "  those  men  didn't  seem  to  be  doing  much. 
They  were  just  where  they  had  been  ten  days  ago." 

He  tried  to  reassure  her  —  it  would  be  a  long  slow 
affair  —  didn't  she  remember  the  James  case,  where  a 
year  after  the  theft  the  jewels  were  found  under  the 

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Concerning  Detectives 


skin  of  a  ham  hanging  in  the  cellar?  Mrs.  Janney  was 
not  appeased,  she  scoffed  at  the  ham,  and  said  the  de- 
tectives were  the  stupidest  body  of  men  in  the  country 
outside  Congress.  She  was  going  to  offer  a  reward,  ten 
thousand  dollars  —  and  then  she  muttered  something 
about  "  taking  a  hand  herself."  In  answer  to  Mr.  Jan- 
ney's  alarmed  questions  she  quieted  down,  laughed,  and 
said  she  didn't  mean  anything. 

She  did,  however,  and  had  Mr.  Janney  known  it 
wakeful  nights  would  again  have  been  his  portion.  But 
she  had  no  intention  of  telling  him.  She  had  seen  that 
he  was  worn  out,  a  mere  bundle  of  nerves,  and  what 
she  intended  to  do  would  be  done  without  his  knowledge 
or  connivance.  This  was  to  start  a  private  inquiry  of 
her  own.  The  written  combination,  loose  in  an  un- 
locked drawer,  had  influenced  her ;  it  was  possible  some 
one  in  the  house  had  found  it.  She  felt  that  she  owed 
it  to  her  dependents  and  herself  to  make  sure.  And  the 
best  way  to  do  this  was  to  have  a  detective  on  the  spot 
— but  a  detective  whose  profession  would  be  unknown. 
Fortunately  the  plan  was  workable ;  there  was  a  vacancy 
in  the  household  staff.  For  the  past  month  she  had 
been  advocating  the  engagement  of  a  nursery  govern- 
ess for  Bebita. 

Two  days  after  her  slip  to  Mr.  Janney  an  opportu- 
nity came  for  broaching  the  subject.  They  were  at 
lunch  when  Suzanne  announced  that  she  intended  going 

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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

to  town  the  next  morning.  It  was  about  Bebita  —  the 
child's  eyes,  which  had  troubled  her  in  the  spring,  were 
again  inflamed  and  she  had  complained  of  pain  in  them. 
Suzanne  wanted  to  consult  the  oculist;  she  hoped  a 
prescription  would  be  sufficient,  but  of  course  if  he  in- 
sisted on  seeing  the  child  she  would  have  to  be  taken  in 
for  an  examination. 

Mrs.  Janney  thought  it  the  right  thing  to  do  and 
said  she  would  accompany  her  daughter.  Suzanne,  who 
was  eating  her  lunch,  paused  with  suspended  fork  and 
sidelong  eye ;  —  why  was  that  necessary,  she  was  per- 
fectly competent  to  attend  to  the  matter.  Mrs.  Jan- 
ney agreed  and  said  she  was  going  on  another  errand 
—  to  see  about  the  nursery  governess  they  had  spoken 
of  so  often.  It  was  time  something  was  done,  Bebita 
was  running  wild,  forgetting  all  she  had  learned  last 
winter.  Mrs.  Janney  had  heard  of  several  women  who 
might  answer  and  would  spend  the  day  looking  them 
up  and  interviewing  them.  Suzanne  returned  to  her 
food.  "  Oh,  very  well,  it  might  be  a  good  thing,  only 
please  get  some  one  young  and  cheerful  who  didn't  put 
on  airs  and  want  to  be  a  member  of  the  family." 

One  of  Suzanne's  fads  was  a  fear  of  the  Pennsyl- 
vania Tunnel.  Whether  it  was  a  pose  or  genuine  she 
absolutely  refused  to  go  through  it,  declaring  that  on 
her  one  trip  she  had  nearly  died  of  fright  and  the  pres- 
sure on  her  ears.  Since  that  alarming  experience  she 

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Concerning  Detectives 


always  went  to  the  city  either  by  the  old  Long  Island 
Ferry  route,  or  by  motor  across  the  Queensborough 
Bridge. 

It  being  a  fine  morning  they  decided  to  drive  in  — 
about  an  hour's  run  —  and  at  ten  they  started  forth. 
They  chatted  amicably,  for  Suzanne,  since  the  robbery 
and  the  knowledge  that  her  debts  were  paid,  had  been 
unusually  gay  and  good-humored.  They  separated  at 
Altman's,  Mrs.  Janney  keeping  the  motor,  Suzanne 
taking  a  taxi.  At  four  they  would  meet  at  a  tea  room 
and  drive  home  together. 

Mrs.  Janney's  first  point  of  call  was  a  strange  place 
in  which  to  look  for  a  nursery  governess.  It  was  the 
office  of  Whitney  &  Whitney,  her  lawyers,  far  down- 
town near  Wall  Street.  She  was  at  once  conducted 
into  Mr.  Whitney's  sanctum,  for  besides  being  an  im- 
portant client  she  was  a  personal  friend.  He  moved 
forward  to  meet  her  —  a  large,  slightly  stooped,  heavily 
built  man  with  a  shock  of  thick  gray  hair,  and  eyes, 
singularly  clear  and  piercing,  overshadowed  by  bushy 
brows.  His  son,  George,  was  sent  for,  and  after  greet- 
ings, jolly  and  intimate,  they  settled  down  to  talk  over 
Mrs.  Janney's  business. 

She  told  them  the  situation  and  her  needs  —  could 
they  find  the  sort  of  person  she  wanted.  She  knew  they 
employed  detectives  of  all  sorts  and  Kissam's  men  had 
been  so  lacking  in  energy  and  so  stupid  that  she  wanted 

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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

no  more  of  that  kind.  She  had  to  have  a  woman  of 
whose  character  they  were  assured,  and  sufficiently  pre- 
sentable to  pass  muster  with  the  master  and  the  serv- 
ants. Mr.  Whitney  gave  a  look  at  his  son  and  they 
exchanged  a  smile. 

"  Go  and  see  if  you  can  get  her  on  the  wire,  George," 
he  said,  "  and  if  she's  willing  tell  her  to  come  down 
right  now."  Then  as  the  young  man  left  the  room  he 
turned  to  Mrs.  Janney.  "  I  know  the  very  person, 
the  best  in  New  York,  if  she'll  undertake  it." 

"  Some  one  who's  thoroughly  reliable  and  can  fit  into 
the  place?  " 

"  My  dear  friend,  she's  as  reliable  as  you  are  and 
that's  saying  a  good  deal.  As  to  fitting  in,  leave  that 
to  her.  In  her  natural  state  there  are  still  some  rough 
edges,  but  when  she's  playing  a  part  they  don't  show. 
She's  smart  enough  to  hide  them." 

"  Who  is  she  —  a  detective  ?  " 

"  Not  a  real  one,  not  a  professional.  She  was  a 
telephone  girl  and  then  she  made  a  good  marriage  — 
fellow  named  Babbitts,  star  reporter  on  the  Despatch. 
She's  in  love  and  happy  and  prosperous,  but  now  and 
again  she'll  do  work  for  us.  It's  partly  for  old  sakes' 
sake  and  partly  because  she  has  the  passion  of  the 
artist  —  can't  resist  if  the  call  comes  to  her.  She  came 
to  our  notice  during  the  Hesketh  case  —  did  some  of 
the  cleverest  work  I  ever  saw  and  got  Reddy  out  of 

72 


Concerning  Detectives 


prison.  The  Reddys  are  among  her  best  friends  — 
can't  do  too  much  for  her." 

Mrs.  Janney,  who  knew  the  beautiful  Mrs.  Reddy, 
was  impressed. 

"  Do  you  think  she'll  come?  "  she  asked  anxiously. 

He  gave  her  a  meaning  look  and  nodded ; 

"  Yes.     It's  an  unusually  interesting  case." 

Half  an  hour  later  Mrs.  Janney  met  Molly  Morgen- 
thau  Babbitts  and  laid  the  situation  before  her.  She 
found  the  much-vaunted  young  woman,  a  pretty,  slender 
girl,  with  crisply  curly  black  hair,  honest  brown  eyes, 
and  a  pleasantly  simple  manner.  Mrs.  Janney  liked 
what  she  said  and  liked  her.  There  was  no  doubt  about 
her  intelligence  and  as  to  rousing  any  suspicions  in 
the  household  —  she  would  have  deceived  Mr.  Janney 
—  she  even  would  have  deceived  Dixon.  As  the  case  was 
outlined  she  could  not  hide  her  kindling  interest  and, 
when  she  agreed  to  undertake  the  work,  Mrs.  Janney 
felt  that  the  nursery  governess  idea  had  been  an  inspira- 
tion. The  interview  ended  with  practical  details : 
Mrs.  Babbitts  would  make  her  reports  to  the  Whitneys, 
who  would  figure  as  her  employers  and  would  hand  on 
her  findings  to  Mrs.  Janney.  She  would  arrive  by  the 
twelve-thirty  train  on  the  following  day  and  be  known 
at  Grasslands  as  Miss  Rodgers.  As  they  were  separat- 
ing she  asked  if  there  was  a  branch  telephone  on  the 
upper  floor  and,  being  told  that  there  was  in  an  alcove 

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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

off  the  main  hall,  requested  that  her  room  might  be  near 
it  as  the  telephone  played  an  important  part  in  her 
work. 

Suzanne's  course  had  a  curious  resemblance  to  her 
mother's,  though  her  plan  of  procedure  was  differ- 
ent. 

From  the  day  after  the  robbery  she  had  developed  an 
interest  in  the  telephone  "  Red  Book."  She  had  taken 
it  to  her  room  and  turning  to  the  D's  studied  the  list  of 
detective  agencies.  After  much  comparison  and  cogita- 
tion she  had  copied  down  the  name  of  one  Horace 
Larkin,  who  appeared  to  be  in  business  by  himself  and 
whose  office  was  in  a  central  and  accessible  part  of  the 
city. 

After  she  had  parted  from  her  mother  she  went  to 
a  department  store,  shut  herself  in  a  telephone  booth, 
and  called  up  Mr.  Larkin.  A  masculine  voice,  that  of 
Larkin  himself,  had  answered,  and  explaining  her  de- 
sire to  see  him  on  important  business,  he  had  made  an 
appointment  to  meet  her  that  afternoon  at  the  Janney 
house  on  Fifth  Avenue. 

This  was  an  excellent  place  for  Suzanne's  purpose, 
closed  for  the  summer,  its  porch  boarded  up,  its  blue- 
blinded  windows  proclaiming  its  desertion.  An  ancient 
caretaker  occupied  the  basement  with  her  niece,  Aggie 
McGee,  to  help  and  be  company.  Mrs.  Janney  never 
went  there,  but  now  and  then  Suzanne  did,  generally 

7i 


Concerning  Detectives 


on  a  quest  for  some  needed  garment,  so  that  her  pres- 
ence in  the  house  was  in  no  way  remarkable. 

The  appointment  was  for  two  and,  after  telling  Aggie 
McGee  that  a  gentleman  would  call  and  to  show  him 
into  the  reception  room,  she  retired  to  the  long  Louis 
Quinze  salon  and  threw  herself  on  a  sofa.  She  was  a 
little  scared  at  what  she  had  planned  but  she  did  not 
let  her  uneasiness  interfere  with  her  intention,  for,  her 
jnind  once  set  on  a  goal,  she  was  as  determined  as  her 
mother.  Stretched  comfortably  on  the  sofa,  her  glance 
traveling  over  the  covered  walls,  the  chandelier,  a  mis- 
shapen bulging  whiteness  below  the  frescoed  ceiling,  she 
carefully  thought  out  what  she  would  say  to  Mr. 
Larkin. 

A  ring  of  the  bell  brought  her  to  a  sitting  position, 
her  hands  pushing  in  loosened  hairpins.  She  waited 
listening,  heard  the  opening  and  closing  of  doors  and 
then  Aggie  McGee's  head  appeared  between  the  shrouded 
portieres  and  announced,  "  The  gentleman  to  see  you, 
ma'am." 

Her  first  impression  of  him  was  as  a  tall,  broad- 
shouldered  shape,  detailless  against  the  light  of  the 
window.  Then,  as  she  sunk  into  a  chair,  motioning 
him  to  one  opposite,  a  nearer  view  showed  him  as  a 
fine-looking  man,  on  to  forty,  with  a  fresh-colored, 
rounded  face,  its  expression  smilingly  good-humored. 
After  the  unkempt  and  slouchy  detectives  she  had  seen 

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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

at  Grasslands  his  appearance,  natty,  smart,  almost  that 
of  a  man  of  fashion,  surprised  and  pleased  her.  She 
had  an  instinctive  distaste  for  all  ungroomed  and  ill- 
dressed  people  and  seeing  him  so  like  the  members  of 
her  own  world,  she  felt  a  rising  confidence  and  reas- 
surance. Also  his  manners  were  good,  respectful,  busi- 
ness-like. The  one  thing  about  him  that  suggested  the 
wily  sleuth  were  his  eyes,  very  light  colored  in  his  ruddy 
face,  small,  shrewd  and  piercing. 

He  came  to  the  matter  of  the  moment  without  any 
preamble.  Yes,  he  knew  of  the  robbery  and  knew  who 
she  was ;  he  supposed  she  had  called  him  up  to  consult 
him  about  the  case. 

"  Of  course,  Mr.  Larkin,"  she  said,  "  that's  what  I 
wanted.  But  before  I  say  anything  it  must  be  under- 
stood between  us  that  this  —  er  —  sending  for  you  — 
is  entirely  my  affair.  I  want  to  employ  you  myself  in- 
depently  of  the  others." 

He  nodded,  showing  no  surprise; 

"  You  want  to  put  your  own  detective  on  the  case." 

"  Exactly.  You're  to  be  employed  by  me  but  no 
one  must  know  you  are  or  know  what  you're  doing." 

He  smothered  a  smile  and  said  : 

"  I  see." 

"  I  don't  think  the  men  that  are  working  over  it  now 
are  very  clever  or  interested.  They  just  poke  about 
and  ask  the  same  questions  over  and  over.  The  way 

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Concerning  Detectives 


they're  going  I  should  say  we'd  never  get  anything  back. 
So  I  decided  I'd  start  an  inquiry  of  my  own  and  in  a 
direction  no  one  else  had  thought  of." 

Mr.  I  ;irkin  gave  a  slight  movement  an  almost  imper- 
ceptib'  -jtraightening  up  of  his  body: 

**  D<     ou  mean  that  you  suspect  some  one?  " 

Sux  ne  looked  at  the  arm  of  her  chair  and  then 
smoou  ed  its  linen  cover  with  delicate  finger  tips.  A 
very  .light  color  deepened  the  artificial  rose  of  her 
cheel  . 

"  V*K  afraid  I  do,"  she  murmured. 

"Afraid?" 

She  nodded,  closing  her  eyes  with  the  movement. 
She  had  the  appearance  of  a  person  distressed  but 
resolute. 

"  I  can't  help  suspecting  some  one  that  I  don't  like 
to  suspect.  And  that's  why  I  want  your  assistance." 

"  I  don't  quite  understand,  Mrs.  Price." 

"  This  is  the  explanation.  If  it  were  known  that 
this  person  was  guilty  it  would  ruin  and  destroy  them. 
My  idea  is  to  be  sure  that  they  did  it  —  have  evidence 
—  and  then  tell  my  mother.  We  could  keep  quiet 
about  it,  get  the  jewels  back  and  not  have  the  thief  dis- 
graced and  sent  to  jail." 

"  Oh,  I  see.  You  want  to  face  the  party  with  a, 
knowledge  of  their  guilt,  have  them  restore  the  jewels,, 
and  let  the  matter  drop." 

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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

"  Precisely.  And  I  don't  want  to  say  anything  un- 
til I'm  sure,  can  come  out  with  everything  all  clear 
and  proved.  That's  where  I  expect  you  to  help,  put 
things  together,  find  out,  work  up  the  case." 

"  Who  is  the  person?  " 

Her  color  burned  to  a  deep  flush;  she  leaned  toward 
him,  urgent,  almost  pleading: 

"  Mr.  Larkin,  I  hardly  like  to  say  it  even  to  you, 
but  I  must.  It's  my  mother's  secretary,  Miss  Mait- 
land." 

He  looked  stolidly  unmoved: 

"  She  lives  in  the  house?  " 

"  Yes,  for  over  a  year  now.  My  mother  thinks 
everything  of  her,  wouldn't  believe  it  unless  it  was 
proved  past  a  doubt." 

"  What  are  your  reasons  for  suspecting  her?  " 

Suzanne  was  silent  for  a  moment  moving  her  glance 
from  him  to  the  window.  Mr.  Larkin  had  a  good 
chance  to  look  at  her  and  took  it.  He  noticed  the 
feverish  color,  the  line  between  the  brows,  the  tightened 
muscles  under  the  thin  cheeks.  He  made  a  mental  note 
of  the  fact  that  she  was  agitated. 

"  Well  that  night,  the  night  of  July  the  seventh," 
she  said  in  a  low  voice,  "  I  was  wakeful.  I  often  am, 
I've  always  been  a  nervous,  restless  sort  of  person. 
About  half  past  one  I  thought  I  heard  a  noise  —  some 
one  on  the  stairs  —  and  I  got  up  and  looked  out  of  my 

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Concerning  Detectives 


door.  I  can  see  the  head  of  the  stairs  from  there,  and 
as  it  was  very  bright  moonlight  any  one  coming  up 
would  be  perfectly  plain  —  I  couldn't  make  a  mistake 
—  what  I  saw  was  Miss  Maitland.  She  was  going  very 
carefully,  tiptoeing  along  as  if  she  was  trying  to  make 
no  noise.  At  the  top  she  turned  and  went  down  the 
passage  to  her  own  room  which  is  just  beyond  my 
mother's." 

She  paused  and  shot  a  tentative  look  at  him.  He 
met  it,  teetered  his  head  in  quiet  comprehension  and 
murmured : 

"She  didn't  see  you?" 

"  Oh  no,  she  was  not  looking  that  way.  And  I 
didn't  say  anything  or  think  anything  then  —  thought 
she'd  gone  downstairs  for  something  she'd  forgotten. 
The  next  day  it  had  passed  out  of  my  mind;  it  wasn't 
until  I  heard  that  the  jewels  were  gone  that  it  came 
back  and  then  I  was  too  shocked  to  say  a  word.  It 
all  came  upon  me  in  a  minute  —  I  remembered  how  I'd 
seen  her  and  remembered  that  she  knew  the  combina- 
tion of  the  safe." 

"  Oh,"  said  Mr.  Larkin,  "  she  knew  that,  did 
she?" 

"  Yes,  she  keeps  her  account  books  and  money  in 
there,  things  she  uses  in  her  work.  You  see  she's  been 
thoroughly  trusted  —  never  looked  upon  as  anything 
but  perfectly  honest  and  reliable." 

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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

"  Then  she's  filled  her  position  to  Mrs.  Janney's  sat- 
isfaction? " 

"  Entirely.  Of  course  we  really  don't  know  very 
much  about  her.  She  was  highly  recommended  when 
she  came,  but  people  in  her  position  if  they  do  their 
work  well  —  one  doesn't  bother  much  about  them." 

"  Have  you  noticed  anything  in  her  conduct  or  man- 
ner of  life  lately  that  could  —  er  —  have  any  connec- 
tion with  or  throw  any  light  on  such  an  action?  " 

Suzanne  pondered  for  a  moment  then  said: 

"  No  —  she's  always  been  about  the  same.  She's 
gone  into  the  city  more  this  summer  than  she  did  last 
year,  on  her  holidays,  I  mean.  And  —  oh  yes,  this  may 
be  important  —  that  night,  when  we  came  home  from 
dinner,  she  asked  my  mother  if  she  could  have  the  fol- 
lowing day  —  Saturday  —  in  town.  Mrs.  Janney  said 
she  might  and  she  went  in  before  any  of  the  family 
were  up." 

"  Um,"  murmured  Mr.  Larkin  and  then  fell  into  a 
silence  in  which  he  appeared  to  be  digesting  this  last 
item.  When  he  spoke  again  it  was  to  propound  a 
question  that  ruffled  Suzanne's  composure  and  caused 
her  blue  eyes  to  give  out  a  sudden  spark : 

"  Do  you  happen  to  know  if  she  has  any  admirer  — 
lover  or  fiance  or  anything  of  that  sort?  " 

"  I  know  nothing  whatever  about  it,  but  I  should  say 
not.  Certainly  I  never  heard  of  such  a  person.  I 

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Concerning  Detectives 


never  saw  any  man  in  the  least  attracted  by  her  and 
I  should  imagine  she  was  a  girl  who  had  no  charm  for 
the  other  sex." 

Mr.  Larkin  stirred  in  a  slow,  large  way  and  said: 

"  Such  a  robbery  is  a  pretty  big  thing  for  a  girl 
like  that  to  attempt.  She  must  know  —  any  one  would 
—  that  jewels  like  Mrs.  Janney's  are  hard  to  dispose  of 
without  detection." 

Suzanne  shrugged,  her  tone  showing  an  edge  of  ir- 
ritation : 

"  That  may  be  the  case,  I  suppose  it  is.  But 
couldn't  she  have  been  employed  by  some  one  —  aren't 
there  gangs  who  put  people  on  the  spot  to  rob  for 
them?" 

"  Certainly  there  are.  And  that  would  be  the  most 
plausible  explanation.  Not  necessarily  a  gang,  how- 
ever, an  individual  might  be  behind  her.  At  this  stage, 
knowing  what  I  do,  that  would  be  my  idea.  But,  of 
course,  I  can  say  nothing  until  I'm  better  informed. 
What  I'll  do  now  will  be  to  look  up  her  record  and  then 
I  think  I'll  take  a  run  down  to  Berkeley  and  see  if  I 
can  pick  up  anything  there." 

Suzanne  looked  uneasy: 

"  But  you'll  be  careful,  and  not  let  any  one  guess 
what  you're  doing  or  that  you  have  any  business  with 
me?  " 

He  smiled  openly  at  that : 

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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

"  Mrs.  Price,  you  can  trust  me.  This  is  not  ray 
first  case." 

After  that  there  was  talk  of  financial  arrangements 
and  future  plans.  Mr.  Larkin  thought  he  would  come 
out  to  Berkeley  in  a  day  or  two  and  take  a  lodging 
in  the  village.  When  he  had  anything  of  moment  to 
impart  he  would  drop  a  note  to  Mrs.  Price  and  she  could 
designate  a  rendezvous.  They  parted  amicably,  Su- 
zanne feeling  that  she  had  found  the  right  man  and 
Mr.  Larkin  secretly  elated,  for  this  was  the  first  case 
of  real  magnitude  that  had  come  his  way. 

At  the  appointed  time  Suzanne  met  Mrs.  Janney  at 
the  tea  room  and  on  the  way  home  they  exchanged 
their  news.  The  nursery  governess  had  been  found,  ap- 
proved and  engaged,  and  the  oculist  had  said  to  go  on 
with  the  lotion  and  if  Bebita's  eyes  did  not  improve  to 
bring  her  in  to  see  him.  Both  ladies  agreed  that  their 
labors  had  exhausted  them,  but  each  looked  unusually 
vivacious  and  mettlesome. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

MOLLY'S  STORY 

I'VE  been  asked  to  tell  the  part  of  this  story  in 
which  I  figure.     I've  done  that  kind  of  work  be- 
fore, so  I'm  not  as  shy  as  I  was  that  first  time, 
and  since  then  I've  studied  some,  and  come  up  against 
fine  people,  and  I'm  older  —  twenty-seven  on  my  last 
birthday.     But  as  I  said  then,  so  I'll  say  now  —  don't 
expect  any  stylish  writing  from  me.     At  the  switch- 
board there's  still  ginger  in  me,  but  with  the  pen  I'm 
one  of  the  "  also  rans." 

Fortunately  for  me,  I  was  always  a  good  one  to 
throw  a  bluff  and,  having  made  a  few  excursions  into 
the  halls  of  the  rich  and  great,  I  felt  I  could  be  safely 
featured  as  a  nursery  governess.  She  belongs  in  the 
layer  between  the  top  and  bottom  and  doesn't  mix  with 
either.  I  wouldn't  have  to  play  down  to  the  kitchen 
standards  or  up  to  the  parlor  ones,  just  move  along, 
sort  of  lonesome,  in  the  neutral  ground  between.  As 
for  teaching  the  child,  I  knew  I  could  do  that  as  well 
as  the  girls  who  are  marking  time  until  they  marry, 
or  the  decayed  ladies  who  employ  their  declining  years 
and  intellects  that  way. 

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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

It  didn't  seem  to  me  hard  to  size  up  the  family.  Mrs. 
Janney  was  the  head  of  it,  the  middle  and  both  ends  — 
a  real  queen  who  didn't  need  a  crown  or  a  throne  to 
make  people  bow  the  knee.  Mr.  Janney  was  a  good, 
kind  old»gentleman  who  was  too  law-abiding  to  get  ricli 
any  way  but  the  way  he  did.  Mrs.  Price  wasn't  up  to 
their  measure  —  an  only  child,  born  with  a  silver  lin- 
ing. She  was  one  of  those  slimp'sy,  thin  women  that  a 
man  would  be  afraid  to  hug  for  fear  she'd  crack  in  his 
arms  or  snap  in  the  middle.  She  was  very  cordial 
and  pleasant  to  me  and  I  will  say  she  was  fond  of  her 
little  girl. 

When  I  came  to  the  servants  I  couldn't  see  but  what 
every  one  of  them  registered  honesty.  If  it  had  been 
printed  on  their  foreheads  with  a  rubber  stamp  it 
couldn't  have  been  plainer.  There  were  only  two  new 
ones  in  the  outfit  —  girls,  one  of  them  my  chambermaid 
—  and  no  one,  not  even  a  sleuth  desperate  for  glory, 
could  have  considered  them.  Outside  there  were  garden- 
ers and  chauffeurs  —  in  all  there  were  twenty-one  peo- 
ple employed  —  but  it  was  the  same  with  them.  They 
were  a  decent,  well-paid  lot,  the  garage  men  and  head 
gardener  living  on  the  place,  the  laborers  lodged  in 
the  village. 

The  one  person  my  eye  lingered  on  was  Miss  Mait- 
land the  Secretary.  Not  that  there  was  anything  sus- 
picious about  her,  but  that  she  wasn't  as  simple  and 

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Molly's  Story 


easy  to  see  into  as  the  others.  She  was  a  handsome 
girl,  tall  and  well  made,  sticking  close  to  her  job  and 
not  having  much  to  do  with  any  one.  Her  study  was 
just  under  the  day  nursery  where  we  had  lessons  and 
had  its  own  door  on  to  the  piazza.  When  she  wasn't 
at  work,  she'd  either  sit  there  reading  or  go  off  walk- 
ing by  herself  and  there  was  something  solitary  and 
serious  about  her  that  interested  me.  The  nursery 
window  was  a  good  look-out,  commanding  the  lawns 
and  garden  and  with  the  tennis  court  to  one  side. 
After  lessons  I'd  let  the  blinds  down  and  coil  up  there 
on  a  cushion,  and  I  saw  her  several  times  coming  in  and 
going  out,  always  alone,  and  always  looking  thought- 
ful and  depressed. 

To  get  any  information  about  her  I  had  to  be  very 
careful  for  Mrs.  Janney  thought  the  world  of  her,  but 
I  managed  to  worm  out  some  facts,  though  nothing  of 
any  importance.  She  had  come  to  Mrs.  Janney  from 
a  friend  who  had  had  her  as  secretary  for  two  years. 
She  was  entirely  dependent  on  her  work  for  her  living, 
was  an  orphan,  and  had  no  followers.  The  only  thing 
the  least  degree  out  of  line  was  that  several  times  dur- 
ing the  spring  and  the  early  summer  she  had  asked  for 
more  days  and  afternoons  off  than  formerly.  Mrs. 
Janney  didn't  seem  to  think  anything  of  this  and  I 
didn't  either.  The  girl  —  settled  down  in  her  place 

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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

and  knowing  it  secure  —  was  slackening  up  on  her  first 
speed. 

There  were  a  lot  of  people  coming  and  going  in  the 
house  —  oftenest,  Mr.  Richard  Ferguson.  I'd  heard 
of  him  —  everybody  has  —  millions,  unmarried,  and  so 
forth  and  so  on.  I  hadn't  been  there  thirty-six  hours 
before  I  saw  that  Mrs.  Price  had  an  eye  for  him. 
That's  putting  it  in  a  considerate,  refined  way.  If  I 
was  the  cat  some  women  are,  I'd  say  she  was  camped 
on  his  trail,  with  her  lassoo  ready  in  her  hand.  Of 
course  she'd  work  it  the  way  ladies  do,  very  genteel, 
pretend  to  be  lazy  if  he  wanted  to  play  tennis  and  when 
he  was  off  for  a  swim  wonder  if  she  had  the  energy  to 
walk  to  the  beach.  But  she  always  got  there;  every 
time,  rain  or  shine,  she'd  be  awake  at  the  switch.  I 
didn't  know  whether  he  responded  —  you  couldn't 
tell.  He  was  the  kind  who  was  jolly  and  affable  to 
everybody;  even  if  he  was  a  plutocrat  you  had  to  like 
him. 

I  had  a  good  deal  of  time  to  myself  —  lessons  only 
lasted  two  hours  —  and  I  roamed  round  the  neigh- 
borhood studying  it.  The  second  afternoon  I  went 
into  the  woods,  where  there's  a  short-cut  that  goes 
past  Council  Oaks  to  the  beach.  Off  the  path,  branch- 
ing to  the  right,  I  found  two  smaller  trails  both  lead- 
ing to  the  same  place  —  a  pond,  surrounded  by  trees, 
and  with  a  wharf,  a  rustic  bench,  and  two  bathing 

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Molly's  Story 


houses,  where  the  trails  ended.  In  ray  room  that  eve- 
ning I  asked  Ellen,  my  chambermaid,  about  the  pond 
and  she  told  me  it  was  called  Little  Fresh  and  that  the 
bathing  houses  and  wharf  had  been  built  by  the  former 
owner  of  Grasslands.  But  the  first  year  of  Mrs. 
Janney's  occupation  a  boy  from  the  village  had  been 
drowned  there,  since  when  Mrs.  Janney  had  forbidden 
any  one  to  go  near  or  bathe  in  Little  Fresh.  She  had 
put  up  trespassing  signs  and  locked  the  bath  houses, 
and  no  one  ever  went  there  now,  because,  anyway  if 
you  didn't  go  in  and  get  drowned,  folks  said  you  might 
catch  malaria. 

A  few  days  after  that  Bebita  asked  me  to  go  into 
the  woods  with  her  and  look  for  lady-slippers ;  the 
kitchen  maid  had  found  two  and  Bebita  had  to  see  if 
there  weren't  any  left  for  her.  Everybody  said  it  was 
too  late  for  them,  but  that  didn't  faze  Bebita  who  had 
the  kitchen  maid's  word  for  it  and  was  set  upon  going. 

The  woods  were  lovely,  all  green  and  shimmery  with 
sunlight.  We  took  the  trail  I've  spoken  of,  I  strolling 
along  the  path,  and  Bebita  hunting  about  in  the  under- 
brush for  the  flowers.  I  was  some  little  distance  ahead 
of  her  when  I  saw  a  figure  moving  behind  the  screen  of 
trees  toward  the  right.  I  could  only  catch  it  in  broken 
bits  through  the  leaves,  hear  the  footsteps  soft  on 
the  moss,  and  I  didn't  know  whether  it  was  a  man  or  a 
woman.  Then  it  came  into  view,  out  of  the  trail  that 

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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

led  to  Little  Fresh  Pond,  and  I  saw  it  was  a  man,  who 
stopped  short  at  the  sight  of  me. 

He  was  good-looking,  the  dark  kind,  naturally  brown, 
and  sunburned  on  top  of  it  until  he  was  as  swarthy  as  an 
Indian,  the  little  mustache  on  his  upper  lip  as  black 
as  if  it  was  painted  on  with  ink.  Now  I'm  not  one  that 
thinks  men  ought  to  be  stunned  by  my  beauty,  but  also 
I  don't  expect  to  be  stared  at  as  if  the  sight  of  me 
was  an  unpleasant  shock.  And  that's  the  way  that 
piratical  guy  acted,  standing  rooted,  glaring  angry 
from  under  his  eyebrows. 

I  was  going  to  pass  on  haughty,  when  Bebita's  voice 
came  from  behind  in  a  joyful  cry  of  "  Popsy."  She 
rushed  by  me,  her  arms  spread  out,  and  fairly  jumped 
at  him.  The  ugly  look  went  from  his  face  as  if  you'd 
wiped  it  off  with  a  sponge,  and  the  one  that  took  its 
place  made  him  another  man.  He  caught  her  up  and 
held  her  against  him,  and  she  locked  her  feet  behind  his 
waist  and  her  hands  behind  his  neck  swinging  off  from 
him  and  laughing  out: 

"  Oh,  Popsy,  I  was  looking  for  lady-slippers  and  I 
found  you" 

"  Well,"  he  said,  gazing  at  her  like  he  couldn't  look 
enough,  "  would  you  rather  have  found  a  lady-slip- 
per? " 

She  hugged  up  against  him,  awful  sweet  and  cun- 
ning. 

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Molly's  Story 


"Oh,  Popsy,  that's  a  joke.  I  like  you  better  than 
all  the  lady-slippers  in  the  world.  Where  have  you 
been?" 

"  Over  on  the  bluff,  calling  on  some  people.  I'm 
taking  a  short  cut  through  the  woods." 

"  Where  are  you  going  now  ?  " 

"  To  Cedar  Brook.  My  car's  out  there  on  the 
road  at  the  end  of  the  path." 

I  knew  Bebita  had  been  told  not  to  speak  of  her 
father.  I'd  heard  it  from  Annie  and  Mrs.  Janney  had 
cautioned  me,  if  she  asked  any  questions,  to  say  that  he 
had  gone  away  and  was  not  coming  back.  Children  are 
queer,  take  in  more  than  you  think,  and  I  believe  the 
little  thing  felt  something  of  the  tragedy  of  it.  Any- 
way she  said  nothing  more  on  that  subject,  but  loosing 
one  hand,  waved  it  at  me ; 

"  That's  my  new  governess,  Miss  Rogers.  I'm  study- 
ing lessons  with  her." 

He  looked  at  me,  and  having  no  free  hand,  just 
nodded.  Though  his  expression  wasn't  as  unfriendly 
as  it  had  been,  it  didn't  suggest  any  desire  to  know  me 
better.  He  turned  back  to  Bebita. 

"  Dearie,  you'll  have  to  let  go  for  I  must  jog  along. 
I've  a  date  to  play  tennis  at  Cedar  Brook  and  I'm  late 
now." 

He  kissed  her  and  she  loosened  her  hold  sliding 
through  his  arms  to  the  ground.  Then  with  a  few  last 

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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

words  of  good-by  he  swung  off  down  the  path.  Bebita 
looked  after  him  till  the  trees  hid  him,  gave  a  sigh,  and 
without  a  word  pushed  her  little  hand  into  mine  and 
walked  along  beside  me.  She  seemed  sobered  for  a 
while,  then  picked  up  heart,  began  to  look  about  her, 
and  was  soon  back  at  her  hunt  for  the  flowers. 

I  was  nearing  the  second  path  to  Little  Fresh,  when 
again  I  saw  a  figure  coming  behind  the  trees.  This 
time  it  showed  in  a  moving  pattern  of  lilac  and  the 
sight  made  me  brisk  up  for  I'd  seen  Miss  Maitland  that 
morning  in  a  lilac  linen  dress.  I  quickened  my  step 
until  I  came  to  a  turning  from  which  I  could  look 
up  the  branch  trail,  and  sure  enough,  there  she  was, 
walking  very  lightly  and  spying  out  ahead.  At  the 
sight  of  me  she  too  stopped  and  looked  annoyed.  But 
women  are  a  good  deal  quicker  than  men  —  in  a  minute 
the  look  was  gone  and  she  was  all  smiles  of  welcome. 

"  Oh,  Miss  Rogers,  and  Bebita  too !  How  nice  to 
meet  you.  Are  you  going  to  the  beach?  " 

Bebita  explained  our  quest  and  said  she  was  going 
to  give  it  up  —  there  wasn't  a  single  lady-slipper  left. 

Miss  Maitland's  smile  was  kind  and  consoling: 

"  I  could  have  told  you  that.  They're  gone  for  this 
year." 

"Have  you  been  looking  for  them?"  Bebita  asked. 

No,  Miss  Maitland  had  been  to  the  beach  for  a  bath, 
and  as  the  closed  season  for  lady-slippers  had  begun, 

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Molly's  Story 


we  turned  back,  Bebita  and  the  Secretary  in  front,  I 
meekly  following.  In  answer  to  the  child's  questions 
Miss  Maitland  said  she  had  taken  a  long  swim,  out  be- 
yond the  raft. 

Suddenly  Bebita  popped  out  with: 

"  Did  you  see  my  Daddy?  " 

There  was  a  slight  pause  before  she  answered;  when 
she  did  her  voice  was  full  of  surprise: 

"  Mr.  Price !     Was  he  on  the  beach  ?  " 

"  No,  in  the  woods.  We  met  him.  He  was  taking 
a  short  cut." 

Miss  Maitland  said  she  hadn't  seen  him,  that  he 
must  have  been  some  distance  in  front  of  her,  and 
changed  the  subject. 

While  they  were  talking  I  was  thinking  and  absently 
looking  at  her  back.  They'd  both  come  out  of  the 
branch  trails  that  led  to  Little  Fresh;  they  had  taken 
different  paths  and  not  come  at  the  same  time;  they 
had  each  got  a  jar  when  they  saw  me.  As  I  thought, 
my  eyes  went  wandering  over  her  back  and  finally 
stopped  at  the  nape  of  her  neck.  The  hair  was  drawn 
up  from  it  and  hidden  under  her  hat.  I  could  see  the 
roots  and  the  little  curly  locks  that  drooped  down 
against  the  white  skin.  And  suddenly  I  noticed  some- 
thing —  they  were  perfectly  dry,  not  a  damp  spot, 
not  a  wet  hair.  The  best  bathing  cap  in  the  world 
couldn't  keep  the  water  out  like  that.  She  had  not  been 

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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

bathing  at  all,  she  had  been  with  Chapman  Price  at 
Little  Fresh  Pond.  And  they  wanted  no  one  to  know; 
were  sufficiently  anxious  to  lie  about  it. 

The  next  day  in  a  conference  with  Mrs.  Janney,  I 
asked  her  if  Mr.  Price  had  ever  shown  any  interest  in 
Miss  Maitland.  She  was  amazed,  as  shocked  as  if  I'd 
asked  if  Mr.  Janney  had  ever  been  in  love  with  the  cook. 
Chapman  Price  had  taken  no  more  notice  of  Miss  Mait- 
land than  common  politeness  demanded,  in  fact,  she 
thought  that  of  late  he  had  rather  shunned  her.  She 
was  curious  to  know  why  I  asked  such  a  question,  and 
when  I  said  I  had  to  ask  any  and  every  sort  of  ques- 
tion or  she'd  be  paying  a  detective's  salary  to  a  nursery 
governess,  she  saw  the  sense  of  it  and  quieted  down. 

That  was  more  than  I  did.  The  way  things  were 
opening  up,  I  was  getting  that  small,  inner  thrill,  that 
feeling  like  your  nerves  are  tingling  that  comes  to  me 
when  the  darkness  begins  to  break.  I  didn't  see  much, 
just  the  first,  faint  glimmer,  but  it  was  the  right  kind. 

Two  days  later  a  thing  happened  that  changed  the 
glimmer  to  a  wide  bright  ray.  It  was  this  way : 

In  the  afternoon  the  family,  unless  they  had  a  party 
of  their  own,  were  always  out.  The  only  person  who 
stayed  around  was  Miss  Maitland,  sometimes  working 
over  her  books,  sometimes  sitting  about  sewing  or  read- 
ing. That  day  —  about  four  —  I'd  seen  her  as  I 
passed  the  study  window  writing  at  her  desk.  I'd 

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Molly's  Story 


gone  on  into  the  big  central  hall  where  I  wasn't  sup- 
posed to  belong,  but  feeling  safe  with  everybody  scat- 
tered, I  thought  I'd  make  myself  comfortable  and  take 
a  look  at  the  morning  papers.  I'd  just  cuddled  down  in 
the  corner  of  the  sofa  with  my  favorite  daily  when  I 
heard  the  telephone  ring. 

Now  the  bell  of  the  telephone  is  to  me  like  the  trumpet 
to  the  old  war  horse.  And  hearing  it  that  way,  tingling 
in  the  quiet  of  the  big,  deserted  house,  I  got  a  flash 
that  any  one  wanting  to  talk  to  Miss  Maitland  and 
knowing  the  habits  of  the  family  would  choose  that 
hour.  There  was  a  'phone  in  the  lower  story  —  in  a 
closet  at  the  end  of  the  hall  —  and  the  extension  one 
was  upstairs  in  a  sort  of  curtained  recess  off  the  main 
corridor  just  outside  my  door.  I  rose  off  the  sofa  as 
if  lifted  by  a  charge  of  dynamite  and  slid  for  the  stairs. 
As  I  sprinted  up  I  heard  the  door  of  Miss  Maitland's 
study  open. 

The  upper  hall  was  deserted  and  I  dashed  noiseless 
into  that  alcove  place,  one  hand  lifting  off  the  receiver 
as  soft  as  a  feather,  the  other  pressed  against  my  mouth 
to  smother  the  sound  of  my  breathing.  On  the  floor 
below  Esther  Maitland  had  just  connected;  I  got  her 
first  sentence,  quiet  and  clear  as  if  she  was  in  the  room 
with  me: 

"  Yes.     This  is  Grasslands." 

A  man's  voice  answered: 

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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

"That  you,  Esther?" 

I  could  tell  she  recognized  it,  for  instantly  hers 
changed,  showed  fear  and  a  sort  of  pleading: 

"  Oh,  why  do  you  call  me  up  here  ?  I  told  you  not 
to." 

"  My  dear  girl,  it's  all  right  —  I  know  they're  all  out 
at  this  hour." 

"  The  servants  —  I'm  afraid  of  them  —  and  there's 
a  new  nursery  governess  come." 

"  I  know.  I  met  her  in  the  woods  that  day.  Did 
you?" 

"Of  course  I  did.  How  could  I  help  it?  I  said 
I'd  been  bathing.  We  mustn't  go  there  again  —  it's 
much  better  to  write." 

The  man  gave  a  laugh  that  was  good-humored  and 
easy: 

"  Don't  take  it  so  hard.  There's  not  the  slightest 
need  to  be  worried.  I  called  you  up  to  say  everything 
was  O.  K." 

Her  answer  came  with  a  deep,  sighing  breath : 

"It  may  be  now  —  but  how  can  we  tell?  The  first 
excitement's  dying  down  but  that  doesn't  mean  they're 
not  doing  anything.  Don't  think  for  a  moment,  be- 
cause it's  worked  right  so  far,  that  we're  out  of  the 
woods." 

"  I'm  wise  to  all  that,  I  know  them  better  than  you 
do.  And  the  fellow  that  knows  has  got  it  all  over 

94. 


the  fellow  that  doesn't.  Watchful  waiting  —  that's 
out  motto." 

"  Very  well,  then  let  it  be  watchful.  And  don't  call 
me  up  unless  it's  urgent.  I  can  see  you  in  town  when 
I  go  in.  I  won't  talk  any  more.  Good-by." 

I  heard  the  stillness  of  a  dead  wire  and  then  before 
I  let  myself  think,  flew  into  my  room,  found  a  pad  and 
pencil  and  wrote  it  down  word  for  word. 


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CHAPTER  IX 

GOOD    HUNTING   IN    BERKELEY 

TWO  days  after  his  interview  with  Suzanne,  Mr. 
Larkin  came  to  Berkeley  and  took  a  room  at 
the  Berkeley  Arms.  He  registered  as  Henry 
Childs,  and  described  himself  to  the  clerk  as  a  plumber, 
who,  having  had  a  prosperous  year,  was  looking  for  a 
bit  of  land  upon  which  to  build  a  bungalow. 

Berkeley  was  much  too  exclusive  to  permit  a  hotel 
within  its  exclusive  limits  and  the  Berkeley  Arms  was 
allowed  to  exist  in  a  small,  subdued  way  as  a  conven- 
ience. It  was  an  unassuming,  gray-shingled  building, 
withdrawn  behind  a  lilac  hedge,  and  too  near  the  sta- 
tion to  mar  the  smart  and  shining  elegance  of  the  main 
street.  In  it  dwelt  the  shop-keepers  who  plied  a  tem- 
porary summer  trade  in  the  village,  and  the  chauffeurs 
of  the  less  wealthy  cottagers.  Here  the  detective  heard 
much  talk  of  the  Janney  robbery,  and,  after  he  had 
extended  his  field  of  observation  to  the  post-office  lobby 
and  Bennett's  drug  store,  Berkeley  had  no  secrets  from 
him. 

The  public  mind  was  still  occupied  with  all  that  per- 

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Good  Hunting  in  Berkeley 


tained  to  Grasslands.  He  heard  of  the  separation  of 
the  Prices,  the  scene  lie  had  made  on  leaving,  and  that 
slie  hadn't  treated  him  right.  Berkeley  was  on  Chap- 
man's side,  said  she  wanted  to  get  rid  of  him  to  marry 
Ferguson.  It  was  hoped  that  Ferguson  —  highly  es- 
teemed —  wasn't  going  to  fall  for  it ;  but  you  couldn't 
tell,  the  best  men  made  mistakes.  Gossips,  who  pro- 
fessed an  intimacy  with  the  Grasslands  kitchens,  hinted 
that  Ferguson  was  "  taken  with  "  the  secretary.  But 
Berkeley,  fattened  by  prosperity  to  a  gross  snobbish- 
ness, rejected  the  idea  as  vulgar  and  unfitting. 

All  this  had  its  value  for  Mr.  Larkin,  but  it  was  by 
accident  that  he  acquired  the  most  illuminating  piece  of 
intelligence.  Late  one  afternoon  he  wandered  forth 
into  a  road  that  threaded  the  woods  near  Grasslands. 
The  day  being  warm,  the  way  dusty,  he  seated  himself 
on  a  rock  to  cool  off  and  ponder.  While  there,  con- 
cealed by  the  surrounding  trees,  he  had  seen  two  small 
boys  padding  toward  him  down  the  road,  their  heads 
together  in  animated  debate.  Unaware  of  his  presence 
their  voices  were  loud  and  his  listening  ear  caught  in- 
teresting matter.  They  had  been  in  the  forbidden 
area  of  Grasslands,  had  gone  to  Little  Fresh  for  a 
bathe,  and  had  almost  been  caught  in  the  act  by  a  lady 
and  gentleman. 

Mr.  Larkin  made  his  presence  known,  and  a  dime 
gassed  into  each  grubby  palm  won  their  confidence. 

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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

They  were  on  the  wharf  slipping  off  their  clothes 
when  they  heard  footsteps  and  had  only  time  to  rush  to 
cover  in  the  underbrush  when  Mr.  Chapman  Price  ap- 
peared. He  waited  round  a  bit  and  then  Miss  Mait- 
land came  and  they  sat  on  the  bench  and  talked.  The 
boys  had  not  been  able  to  hear  what  they  said,  but  that 
it  was  serious  they  gathered  from  Mr.  Price's  manner 
and  the  fact  that  Miss  Maitland  had  cried  for  a  spell. 
Mr.  Price  went  away  first,  and  as  he  was  going  he  said 
loud,  standing  in  the  path,  "  Take  the  upper  trail  and 
if  you  meet  anybody  say  you've  been  at  the  beach  bath- 
ing." Then  he'd  gone  and  Miss  Maitland  had  waited 
a  while,  and  then  she'd  gone  too,  by  the  upper  trail, 
the  way  he'd  said. 

Mr.  Larkin  had  been  very  sympathetic  and  friendly, 
swore  he'd  keep  his  mouth  shut,  and  cautioned  the 
boys  to  do  the  same,  for  he'd  heard  that  Mrs.  Janney 
wouldn't  stand  for  any  one  bathing  in  Little  Fresh  and 
you  couldn't  tell  but  what  she  might  have  them  ar- 
rested. 

The  next  day  he  had  a  meeting  with  Suzanne  in  a 
summer-house  on  the  Setons'  grounds,  the  Setons  being 
in  California  for  the  season.  He  gave  his  report  of 
Miss  Maitland's  career  —  entirely  worthy  and  respect- 
able —  and  then  asked  the  question  Molly  had  asked 
Mrs.  Janney:  had  Mr.  Price  ever  exhibited  any  special 
interest  in  the  secretary?  Mrs.  Price's  surprise  and 

98 


Good  Hunting  in  Berkeley 


denial  were  as  genuine  and  emphatic  as  her  mother's 
had  been  and  Mr.  Larkin  arrived  at  the  same  conclu- 
sion as  Molly  —  here  started  the  path  that  led  to  the 
heart  of  the  maze. 

He  did  not  say  this  to  Mrs.  Price.  What  he  did  say 
was  that  he  would  leave  Berkeley  shortly  and  when 
he  had  anything  of  importance  to  tell  make  an  ap- 
pointment with  her  by  letter.  It  was  not  necessary  to 
inform  her  that  his  next  move  would  be  to  Cedar  Brook 
where  he  had  heard  that  Chapman  Price  spent  a  good 
deal  of  his  time. 

Cedar  Brook,  six  miles  above  Berkeley  on  the  main 
line,  had  none  of  the  prestige  of  its  aristocratic  neigh- 
bor. It  was  in  the  process  of  development,  new  houses 
rising  round  its  outskirts,  fields  being  turned  into  lawns. 
Mr.  Larkin  took  a  room  in  a  clapboarded  cottage  which 
stared  at  other  clapboarded  cottages  through  the 
foliage  of  locust  trees.  Announcing  his  intention  of 
buying  a  piece  of  land,  he  was  soon  an  object  of  gen- 
eral attention  and  added  to  his  store  of  knowledge. 
He  heard  a  good  deal  of  Chapman  Price,  who  was  there 
off  and  on  with  the  Hartleys,  and  of  his  man  Willitts. 
It  was  understood  that  Willitts  was  staying  with  Price 
till  he  got  a  job,  and,  as  the  Hartley  house  was  small, 
lodged  in  the  village ;  in  fact,  Mr.  Larkin  learned  to  his 
satisfaction,  was  living  in  one  of  the  clapboarded  cot- 
tages close  to  his  own. 

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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

Professing  a  desire  to  study  the  environs  of  Cedar 
Brook  he  hired  a  wheel,  and  the  third  afternoon  of  his 
stay  peddled  out  into  the  country.  It  was  while  pass- 
ing the  private  hedge  of  a  large  estate,  that  he  came 
upon  a  young  man  engaged  over  a  disabled  bicycle. 

The  day  was  warm,  the  salt  air  of  the  Sound  shut 
out  by  forest  and  hill,  the  road  bathed  in  a  hot  glow 
of  sun.  The  man  had  taken  off  his  coat,  and,  as  Mr. 
Larkin  drew  near,  looked  up  displaying  a  smooth- 
shaven,  rosy  face,  beaded  with  perspiration. 

Mr.  Larkin,  being  by  nature  and  profession  curi- 
ous, drew  up  and  made  friendly  inquiries.  The  man 
answered  them,  explained  the  nature  of  the  damage,  his 
speech  marked  by  the  crisp,  clipped  enunciation  of  the 
Briton.  His  costume  —  negligee  shirt,  knickerbockers 
and  golf  stockings  —  did  not  suggest  the  country  house 
guest,  nor  was  his  accent  quite  that  of  the  English 
gentleman.  The  detective,  who  had  some  knowledge 
of  these  delicate  distinctions,  laid  his  bicycle  against  the 
bank  and  proffered  his  assistance.  Together  they  re- 
paired the  stranger's  wheel,  and,  when  it  was  done, 
rested  from  their  labors  in  the  shade  of  the  hedge,  and 
engaged  in  conversation.  This  at  first  was  of  the 
war  —  the  young  man  explaining  that  he  was  English 
and  had  volunteered  at  once,  but  been  rejected  on  the 
ground  of  his  eyes  —  very  near-sighted,  couldn't  read 
the  chart  at  all  —  touching  with  an  indicating  finger 

100 


Good  Hunting  in  Berkeley 


the  glasses  that  spanned  his  nose.  After  that  he'd 
come  to  America ;  he  could  make  good  money  then  and 
had  people  dependent  on  him.  At  this  stage  Mr. 
Larkin  asked  his  profession  and  learned  that  he  was  a 
valet,  by  name  James  Willitts,  just  now  looking  for  a 
place.  He  had  been  in  the  employ  of  Mr.  Chapman 
Price  and  was  still  staying  with  him  until  he  got  a  new 
"  situation."  Mr.  Larkin  in  return  recited  his  little 
lay  about  the  plumbing  business  and  the  bungalow, 
and,  the  introductions  accomplished,  they  passed  to 
more  general  topics  and  soon  reached  the  Janney  rob- 
bery. 

It  was  a  propitious  meeting  for  the  detective,  for 
Willitts  proved  himself  a  free  and  expansive  talker. 
He  launched  forth  into  the  subject  with  an  artless  zest, 
not  needing  any  prompting  from  his  attentive  listener. 
Mr.  Larkin  was  grateful  for  it  all,  but  especially  so  for 
an  account  of  the  movements  of  Mr.  Price  the  day  be- 
fore the  robbery.  He  had  sent  his  valet  to  Cedar  Brook 
on  the  morning  train,  he  to  follow  later  in  the  afternoon. 
Willitts,  after  the  unpacking  and  settling  was  done, 
had  biked  over  to  Grasslands  to  see  "  the  help,"  and 
then  made  the  engagement  to  meet  them  that  night  at 
the  movies.  Of  course  he  had  to  go  back,  as  part  of  his 
work  was  to  lay  out  Mr.  Price's  dinner  clothes  and  help 
him  dress,  and  it  was  most  unfortunate,  because,  when 
he  went  up  to  Mr.  Price's  room,  Mr.  Price  said  he 

101 


Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

wouldn't  change,  would  keep  on  the  clothes  he  had 
and  go  motoring. 

"  Motoring,"  observed  Mr.  Larkin,  mildly  interested, 
"  did  he  motor  in  the  evening?  " 

"  Not  usually  —  but  I  don't  know  if  you  remember 
that  night.  After  a  heavy  rain  it  cleared  and  the  moon 
came  out  as  bright  as  day." 

Mr.  Larkin  didn't  remember  himself  but  he  had  a 
vague  recollection  of  having  read  it  in  some  of  the 
papers. 

"  It  was  a  wonderful  night,  and  if  it  hadn't  been  I'd 
never  have  kept  my  date.  For  I  got  side-tracked  — 
had  to  fetch  the  doctor  for  my  landlady's  little  girl  who 
was  taken  bad  with  the  croup.  And  what  with  that 
and  the  long  distance  I'd  have  given  it  up  if  it  hadn't 
been  for  the  moon." 

The  detective  did  not  find  these  details  particularly 
pertinent,  and  edged  nearer  to  vital  matters : 

"  Pretty  unpleasant  position  for  those  two  men, 
Dixon  and  Isaac.  I  was  in  Berkeley  before  I  came 
here  and  there  was  a  lot  of  talk." 

The  valet  looked  at  him  with  sharp  surprise: 

"  But  no  suspicion  rests  on  them,  I'll  be  bound.  I 
lived  in  that  house  since  last  October  and  I'll  swear 
that  there's  not  an  honester  pair  in  the  whole  coun- 
try." 

Mr.  Larkin,  as  a  stranger  to  the  parties,  had  no 
102 


Good  Hunting  in  Berkeley 


need  to  display  a  corresponding  warmth,  merely  re- 
marking that  Berkeley  was  convinced  of  their  inno- 
cence. 

The  young  man  appeased,  felt  in  his  coat  for  a  pipe 
and  drew  a  tobacco  pouch  from  his  pocket.  As  he 
filled  the  bowl,  his  profile  was  presented  to  the  detec- 
tive's vigilant  eye,  which  dwelt  thoughtfully  on  the 
neat  outline,  almost  handsome  except  that  the  chin 
receded  slightly.  A  good  looking  fellow,  Mr.  Larkin 
thought,  and  smart  —  somehow  as  the  conversation  had 
progressed  he  was  beginning  to  think  him  smarter  than 
he  had  at  the  start. 

"  How  about  that  Miss  Maitland,"  he  said,  "  the 
young  lady  secretary  ?  " 

Willitts  had  the  pipe  in  his  mouth  and  was  pressing 
the  tobacco  down  with  his  thumb.  He  spoke  through 
closed  teeth: 

"What   about   her?" 

"Well,  what  sort  is  she?  You  needn't  tell  me  she's 
good  looking,  for  I  saw  her  once  in  the  post  office  and 
she's  a  peach." 

The  valet  leaned  forward  and  felt  in  his  coat  pocket 
for  matches.  The  movement  presented  his  face  in  full 
to  Mr.  Larkin's  glance,  and  the  detective  noticed  that 
its  bright  alertness  had  diminished,  that  a  slight  film 
of  stolidity  had  formed  over  it  like  ice  over  a  run- 
ning stream.  The  man  had  removed  his  pipe  and  held 

103 


Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

it  in  one  hand  while  he  scrabbled  round  in  his  coat  with 
the  other. 

"  She's  a  very  fine  young  lady ;  nothing  but  good's 
ever  been  said  of  her  in  my  hearing.  And  very  compe- 
tent in  her  work  —  they  say  —  and  she  would  be,  or 
Mrs.  Janney  wouldn't  ^eep  her." 

He  found  the  matches  and,  sitting  upright,  lit  one  and 
applied  it  to  the  pipe  bowl.  The  detective,  with  his 
eyes  ready  to  swerve  to  the  landscape,  hazarded  a  shot 
at  the  bull's-eye. 

"  They  were  saying  —  or  more  hinting  I  guess  you'd 
call  it  —  that  Mr.  Price  was  —  er  —  getting  to  look 
her  way  too  often." 

Willitts  was  very  still.  The  watching  eyes  noticed 
that  the  flame  of  the  match  burned  steady  over  the 
pipe  bowl;  for  a  moment  the  valet's  breath  was  held. 
Then,  without  moving,  his  voice  peculiarly  quiet,  he 
said: 

"  Now  I'd  like  to  know  who  told  you  that?  " 

The  other  gave  a  lazy  laugh: 

"  Oh,  I  can't  tell  —  every  kind  of  rumor  was  flying 
about.  They  were  ready  to  say  anything." 

'*  Yes,  that's  it.  Say  anything  to  get  listened  to 
and  not  care  whose  character  they  were  taking  away." 

"  Then  there's  nothing  in  it?  " 

"  Tommyrot ! "  he  snorted  out  the  word  with  intense 
irritation.  "  The  silly  fools !  Mr.  Price  is  no  more  in 

104 


Good  Hunting  in  Berkeley 


love  with  her  than  I  am.  He's  not  that  kind;  he's  an 
honorable  gentleman.  And,  believe  me,  the  wrong's 
not  all  on  his  side.  It's  not  for  me  to  tell  tales  of  the 
family,  but  I  will  say  that  there's  not  many  men  could 
have  put  up  with  what  he  did." 

His  face  was  flushed,  he  was  openly  exasperated. 
Mr.  Larkin  remembered  what  he  had  heard  of  the  man's 
affection  for  the  master,  and  his  thoughts  formed  into  an 
unspoken  sentence,  "  He  knows  something  and  won't  tell." 

"  Well,  well,"  he  said  cheerfulty,  "  when  a  big  thing 
happens  there's  bound  to  be  all  sorts  of  scandal  and 
surmise.  People  work  off  their  excitement  that  way; 
you  can't  muzzle  'em  — " 

Willitts  grunted  a  scornful  assent  and  rose.  It  was 
time  to  go ;  Mr.  Price  would  be  coining  up  from  town 
that  night  and  he  would  be  on  duty.  The  detective, 
lifting  his  bicycle  from  the  grass,  casually  inquired  if 
Mr.  Price  motored  from  the  city. 

"  Oh,  dear  no.  He  keeps  his  car  here  in  Sommers' 
garage  —  he  needs  it,  taking  people  about  to  see  the 
country.  He  made  a  tidy  bit  of  money  here  last 
week." 

"  Talking  of  money,"  said  the  other,  "  did  you  know 
that  ten  thousand  dollars'  reward  has  been  offered  for 
those  jewels?  " 

Willitts,  astride  his  wheel,  stretched  a  feeling  foot 
for  the  pedal: 

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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

"  Yes,  I  saw  it  in  the  papers." 

"  Easy  money  for  somebody." 

"  Yes,  but  is  there  somebody  beside  the  thief  —  or 
thieves  —  who  knows?  That's  the  question." 

They  pedaled  back  side  by  side  talking  amicably, 
mutually  pleased  to  find  they  were  neighbors.  On  the 
outskirts  of  the  village  they  parted  with  promises  for 
a  speedy  reunion,  Willitts  to  go  to  the  Hartleys,  and 
Mr.  Larkin  to  Sommers'  garage  to  ask  the  price  of  a 
flivver  for  an  excursion  beyond  the  reach  of  his  bicycle. 

When  he  arrived  at  the  garage  a  large  touring  car, 
packed  full  of  veiled  females,  was  drawn  up  at  the 
entrance.  The  driver,  with  Sommers  and  his  assistant 
beside  him,  had  opened  the  hood  and  the  three  of  them 
were  peering  into  the  inner  depths  with  the  anxious  con- 
centration of  doctors  studying  the  anatomy  of  a  pa- 
tient. Mr.  Larkin  walked  by  them  and  went  into  the 
garage.  He  cast  a  rapid  look  about  him,  over  the 
lined-up  motors  in  the  back,  and  then  through  the  door- 
way into  the  small  office.  The  place  was  empty.  With 
a  stealthy  glance  at  the  party  round  the  touring  car, 
he  strolled  in  to  where  the  time  card  rack  hung  on  the 
wall.  He  ran  his  eye  down  the  list  of  names  until  he 
came  to  "  Price  "  and  drew  out  the  card.  The  second 
entry  was  dated  July  seventh  and  showed  that  that 
night  Price  had  taken  out  his  car  at  eight-thirty  and 
not  returned  it  until  five  minutes  to  two. 

106 


CHAPTER  X 

MOLLY'S  STOKY 

AS  soon  as  I  had  the  notes  of  that  'phone  mes- 
sage down  I  wrote  a  report  for  the  Whitney 
office  —  just  an  outline  —  and  posted  it  my- 
self in  the  village.  The  answer  with  instructions  came 
the  following  evening.  The  next  time  Miss  Maitland 
went  into  town  I  was  to  come  with  her.  In  the  con- 
course of  the  Pennsylvania  station  I'd  see  O'Malley 
(the  Whitney s'  detective)  and  it  would  be  my  busi- 
ness to  point  her  out  to  him.  He  was  to  follow  her 
and  I  to  come  to  the  office  and  make  my  full  report. 
Say  nothing  of  what  I'd  heard  to  Mrs.  Janney. 

That  was  Tuesday ;  Thursday  was  Miss  Maitland's 
holiday  and  right  along  she'd  been  going  into  town. 
Wednesday  afternoon  I  heard  her  say  she'd  go  in  as 
usual  on  the  eight  forty-five,  tipped  off  the  office  by 
'phone,  and  told  Mrs.  Janney  I'd  need  that  day  to 
make  a  report  to  Mr.  Whitney  —  a  business  formality 
that  had  to  be  observed. 

Miss  Maitland  and  I  went  in  together,  looking  very 
sociable  on  the  outside,  and  talking  about  the  weather, 
the  new  style  in  skirts,  how  flat  Long  Island  was,  and 

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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

other  such  lady-like  topics.  Coming  off  the  train  I 
stuck  to  her  like  a  burr,  was  almost  arm  in  arm  going 
up  the  stairs,  and  then  in  the  concourse  broke  myself 
loose  and  faded  away  toward  the  news  stand.  Right 
there,  leaning  against  the  magazine  end,  I'd  seen  a 
large,  fat,  sloppy-looking  man,  with  a  tired  panama 
hat  back  from  his  forehead,  and  a  masonic  emblem  on 
his  watch  chain. 

O'Malley  was  a  first  class  worker  in  his  line,  and  his 
appearance  was  worth  rubies.  He'd  a  small-town, 
corner-grocery  look  that  would  have  fooled  any  one  un- 
less they'd  a  scent  for  a  sleuth  like  a  dog  for  a  bone. 
As  I  edged  up  near  him,  reaching  out  for  a  magazine, 
he  cast  a  cold,  disdainful  glance  at  me  like  the  rube 
that's  wise  to  the  dangers  of  the  great  city.  I  dragged 
a  magazine  out  from  behind  his  back  and  whispered,  "  In 
the  lavender  dress  and  the  white  hat  with  the  grapes 
round  it."  And  dreamy,  as  if  his  thoughts  were  back 
with  mother  on  the  farm,  he  heaved  himself  up  from 
the  stand  and  took  the  trail. 

The  Chief  —  that's  my  name  for  Mr.  Whitney  — 
and  Mr.  George  were  waiting  for  me  in  the  old  man's 
office.  Gee,  it  was  great  to  be  there  again,  like  times 
in  the  past  when  we'd  meet  together  and  thrash  out  the 
last  findings.  Of  course  the  Chief  had  to  have  his 
joke,  holding  me  by  the  shoulders  and  cocking. his  head 
to  one  side  as  he  looked  into  my  face : 

108 


Molly's  Story 


"  My,  my,  Molly,  but  the  country's  put  a  bloom  on 
you!  What  a  pity  it  is  you're  married  or  you  might 
get  one  of  those  millionaires  down  there." 

And  I  couldn't  help  answering  fresh  —  he  just  sort 
of  dares  you  to  it: 

"  I  won't  say  but  what  I  might,  Chief.  But  it's  poor 
sort.  Seeing  what  they've  got  to  choose  from  it  would 
be  a  shame  to  take  the  money." 

Mr.  George  was  impatient  —  he  always  gets  bristly 
when  things  are  moving  —  and  cut  us  off  from  our  fool- 
ing when  a  sharp: 

"  Come  on,  Molly,  sit  down  and  let's  hear  the  whole 
of  this." 

So  I  took  up  the  white  man's  burden,  told  them  all 
I'd  seen  and  heard  and  picked  up,  ending  off  with  the 
full  notes  of  the  'phone  talk.  Then  I  laid  the  paper 
on  the  table  and  looked  at  them.  The  Chief  was  gaz- 
ing thoughtfully  at  the  floor,  and  Mr.  George's  face  was 
puckered  with  a  frown  like  he'd  eaten  a  persimmon. 

"  It's  the  queerest  thing  I  ever  heard  in  my  life,"  he 
said.  "  Chapman  and  that  girl !  Why,  it's  impossible. 
Are  you  sure  the  man  on  the  'phone  was  Chapman?  " 

"  It  must  have  been.  He  spoke  of  meeting  me  in 
the  woods  and  Mr.  Price  is  the  only  man  I  ever  met 
there." 

The  Chief  looked  up,  glowering  at  me  from  under  his 
big  eyebrows: 

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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

"What's  your  opinion  of  this  Maitland  woman?" 

"  Well,  I  don't  think  there's  anything  wrong  about 
her  —  I  mean  I'd  never  get  that  impression  from  her 
general  make-up.  But  before  I  tapped  that  message,  I 
did  get  a  hunch  that  she  was  sort  of  abstracted  and 
shut  away  in  herself.  She'd  lonesome  habits  and  she'd 
look  downhearted  when  she  thought  no  one  saw  her. 
I'd  size  her  up  roughly  as  some  one  who  wasn't  easy 
in  her  mind." 

"  Have  you  ever  heard  anything  of  her  having  any 
sort  of  affair  or  friendship  with  Price?  " 

"  Not  a  hint  of  it.  That's  what  made  me  sit  up  and 
take  notice.  Under  everybody's  eye  the  way  they 
were  and  yet  not  a  soul  suspecting  anything  —  you're 
not  as  secret  as  that  for  nothing." 

"  While  they  were  talking  on  the  'phone  did  you 
notice  anything  in  their  voices  —  it  certainly  wasn't 
in  the  words  —  that  suggested  tenderness  or  love?" 

"  No,  it  was  more  as  if  they  knew  each  other  well. 
He  sounded  as  if  he  was  trying  to  jolly  her  along,  keep 
up  her  spirits ;  and  she  as  if  she  was  scared,  not  at  him 
but  at  what  he  might  do." 

"  They'd  be  careful,"  said  Mr.  George.  "  A  man 
and  a  woman  who  were  Jnvolved  in  some  dangerous 
scheme  wouldn't  coo  at  each  other  over  the  wire  like 
two  turtle  doves." 

"  Love's  hard  to  hide,"  said  the  old  man,  "  betrays 
110 


Molly's  Story 


itself  in  small  ways.  And  Molly's  got  a  fine,  trained 
ear." 

"  Well,  it  caught  no  love  there,  Chief.  The  only  per- 
son at  Grasslands  who's  got  that  complaint  is  Mrs. 
Price.  She's  in  love  with  Mr.  Ferguson." 

Mr.  George  was  very  much  surprised. 

"  The  deuce  you  say !  —  Old  Dick  fallen  at  last." 

The  Chief  gave  a  sort  of  sarcastic  grunt. 

"  Ferguson  can  take  care  of  himself.  He's  not  as 
big  a  fool  as  he  looks  or  pretends  to  be.  Now  these 
extra  holidays  of  Miss  Maitland's  you've  spoken  of  — 
how  long  has  that  been  going  on?  " 

"  Since  April.  Before  that  she  never  wanted  time 
off  and  often  spent  her  Thursdays  in  the  house.  At 
Grasslands  this  summer  she's  gone  into  town  every 
Thursday  and  three  times  asked  for  extra  days.  The 
last  was  July  the  eighth,  the  day  after  the  robbery." 

"  Umph !  "  muttered  the  old  man.  "  I  guess  we'll 
know  something  about  that  when  we  hear  from  O'Mal- 
ley." 

Mr.  George,  slumped  down  in  his  chair,  with  his 
hands  thrust  in  his  pockets,  his  chin  pressed  on  his 
collar,  said  gloomily: 

"  I  confess  I'm  dazed.  It's  perfectly  possible  that 
Chapman,  who  didn't  like  his  wife,  should  have  fallen 
in  love  with  the  girl,  it's  perfectly  natural  that  they 
should  have  kept  it  dark;  but  that  he's  joined  with  her 

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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

in  a  plan  to  steal  Mrs.  Janney's  jewels !  " —  he  shook 
his  head  staring  in  front  of  him  — "  I  can't  get  the 
focus.  Price  wouldn't  qualify  for  a  Sunday  school 
superintendent,  but  I  can't  seem  to  see  him  as  a  gentle- 
man burglar." 

"  He  was  mad  when  he  left,"  I  said.  "  He  made  a 
sort  of  scene." 

"What's  that?"  growled  the  old  man,  looking  up 
quick. 

"  He  got  angry  and  threatened  them.  I  don't  know 
just  in  what  way  because  I've  only  caught  it  in  bits  and 
scraps.  But  Dixon  heard  him  and  told  in  the  village 
where  I  picked  up  an  echo  of  it.  He  said  they'd  stolen 
his  child." 

"  Sounds  like  him  —  and  ugly  temper.  Try  and  get 
exactly  what  he  said  if  you  can." 

We  talked  on  a  while,  going  back  and  forth  over  it 
like  a  lawn  mower  over  grass.  Then  a  knock  on  the 
door  stopped  us ;  a  boy  put  in  his  head  and  announced : 

"  Mr.  O'Malley's  outside  and  wants  to  see  Mr.  Whit- 
ney." 

Mr.  George  and  I  squared  round  in  our  chairs  with 
our  eyes  glued  on  the  doorway.  The  Chief,  slouched 
down  comfortable  with  his  shirt-bosom  bulging,  looked 
like  a  sleepy  old  bear,  but  from  under  the  jut  of  his 
eyebrows  his  glance  shone  as  keen  as  a  razor.  O'Mal- 
ley  entered,  hot  and  red,  his  panama  in  his  hand,  and 

112 


that  air  about  him  I've  seen  before  —  a  suppressed 
triumph  gleaming  out  through  the  cracks. 

"  Well  ?  "  says  Mr.  George,  curt  and  sharp. 

O'Malley  took  a  chair  and  mopped  his  forehead: 

"  There's  no  mistake  she's  got  something  up  her 
sleeve.  She  took  the  Seventh  Avenue  car  and  went 
downtown  until  she  came  to  Jefferson  Court  house,  got 
out  there,  went  a  few  blocks  into  the  Greenwich  Village 
section  and  stopped  at  a  house  on  a  small  sort  of  thor- 
oughfare called  Ga}rle  Street.  I  think  she  let  herself 
in  with  a  key,  bat  I'm  not  sure.  The  place  is  a  shady- 
looking  rookery,  no  porch  or  steps,  door  opening  right 
on  the  sidewalk,  three  windows  to  each  floor,  mansard 
roof.  About  ten  minutes  after  she  went  in,  a  man 
came  down  the  street,  walking  quick,  hat  low  over  his 
eyes  —  it  was  Mr.  Chapman  Price." 

Mr.  George  stirred  and  gave  a  matter.  The  old 
man,  stretching  his  hand  to  the  cigar  box  at  his  el- 
bow, took  out  a  large  fat  cigar  and  said: 

"Price,  eh?  — Go  on." 

"  I  thought  the  lady'd  used  a  key,  and  I  saw  plain 
that  he  did.  The  door  opened  and  he  went  in.  I 
crossed  over  and  looked  at  the  bells.  There  were  nine  of 
them,  all  with  names  underneath  except  the  top  floor 
ones.  These,  the  last  three  of  the  line,  had  no  names, 
showing  the  top  floor  was  vacant. 

"  There  was  a  drug  store  right  opposite  and  I 
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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

went  in,  took  a  soda,  and  asked  the  clerk  about  the 
locality  —  said  I  was  looking  for  lodgings  in  that  sec- 
tion.* I  got  him  round  to  the  house,  where  I  heard  I 
might  get  a  room  cheap.  He  said  maybe  I  could  — 
being  summer  there'd  be  vacancies  —  that  the  place 
was  decent  enough,  but  he'd  heard  pretty  poor  and 
mean.  Just  as  I  got  through  talking  to  him  and  was 
leaving  I  saw  the  door  across  the  street  open,  and 
Mr.  Price  come  out.  He  came  quick,  on  the  slant, 
and  was  among  the  folks  on  the  sidewalk  before  you 
could  notice.  It  was  the  way  a  man  acts  when  he 
doesn't  want  to  be  seen.  He  walked  off  toward  Seventh 
Avenue,  his  head  down,  keeping  close  to  the  houses.  I 
didn't  wait  for  Miss  Maitland  —  thought  I'd  better 
come  back  here  and  report." 

"Well!"  said  Mr.  George.  "I'm  jiggered  if  I 
can  make  head  or  tail  of  it." 

The  Chief  took  the  cigar  out  of  his  mouth  and  ad- 
dressed O'Malley: 

"  Find  out  Price's  movements  on  the  night  of  July 
seventh,  everything  he  did,  everywhere  he  went."  He 
turned  to  me.  "  And  you  want  to  remember  not  a 
hint  of  this  gets  to  Mrs.  Janney.  She  hates  Price 
and  when  her  blood's  up  she's  a  red  Indian.  We  don't 
want  the  family  drawn  in  until  we  know  something." 


114 


CHAPTER  XI 

FERGUSON'S  IDEA 

DURING  these  days  Dick  Ferguson  thought 
a  good  deal  and  said  very  little.  Like  the 
rest  of  his  world  he  wondered  over  the  un- 
solved mystery  of  the  Janney  robbery,  but  his  won- 
derings  contained  an  element  of  discomfort.  He  heard 
the  subject  discussed  everywhere  and  often  the  name 
of  Esther  Maitland  came  up  in  the  discussions.  Not 
that  any  one  ever  suggested  she  might  be  involved ;  — 
it  was  more  a  sympathetic  appreciation  of  her  posi- 
tion. Every  one  spoke  very  feelingly  about  it :  —  poor 
girl,  so  uncomfortable  for  her,  knowing  the  combina- 
tion and  all  that  sort  of  thing  —  the  Janneys  had 
stood  by  her  splendidly,  but  still  it  was  trying. 

It  tried  him  a  good  deal,  made  inroads  on  his  tem- 
per, until  it  lost  its  sunny  evenness  and  he  was  some- 
times short  and  surly.  The  day  after  Molly  and 
Esther  went  to  town  he  had  been  called  to  a  conference 
in  the  Fairfax  house  on  the  bluff.  A  gang  of  motor 
boat  thieves  had  been  operating  along  the  Sound,  had 
already  stolen  two  launches,  and  the  owners  of  water- 

115 


Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

front  property  had  convened  to  decide  on  a  course. 
Ferguson,  with  a  small  fleet  to  his  credit,  had  taken 
rather  a  high  hand,  and  shown  an  unwonted  irritation 
at  the  indecision  of  his  associates.  If  they  wanted 
their  boats  protected  it  was  up  to  them  to  do  it,  estab- 
lish a  shore  police  patrol  financed  by  themselves.  That 
was  what  he  intended  to  do  and  they  could  join  with 
him  or  not  as  they  pleased.  He  left  them,  ruffled  by 
his  brusqueness  and  remarking  grumpily  that  "  Fergu- 
son was  beginning  to  feel  his  money." 

He  went  from  the  meeting  to  his  own  beach  and  on 
the  way  met  Suzanne  returning  with  Bebita  from  the 
morning  bath.  They  stopped  for  a  chat  in  the  course 
of  which  Suzanne  made  a  series  of  remarks  not  cal- 
culated to  soothe  his  perturbed  spirit.  They  were 
apropos  of  Miss  Maitland,  who  had  taken  an  early 
morning  swim,  all  alone,  refusing  to  wait  and  go  in 
with  them.  Suzanne  said  it  was  a  pity  Miss  Maitland 
kept  so  much  to  herself  —  the  girl  seemed  depressed 
and  out  of  spirits  lately,  didn't  he  think  so?  Quite 
different  to  what  she  had  been  earlier  in  the  season, 
seemed  to  be  troubled  about  something.  Too  bad  — 
every  one  liked  her  so  much,  and  people  did  talk  so. 
Then  with  an  artless  smile  she  went  off  under  her  white 
parasol. 

There  was  no  smile  on  Ferguson's  face  as  he  walked  to 
his  boat  houses.  He  told  his  men  of  the  police  patrol 

116 


Ferguson's  Idea 


—  to  operate  along  the  shore  after  nightfall  —  gave  a 
few  gruff  orders  and  disappeared  into  a  bath  house. 
When  he  emerged,  stripped  for  a  swim,  he  stalked 
silently  by  them  and  dove  from  the  end  of  the  wharf. 
They  were  surprised  at  his  manner,  usually  so  genial, 
and  wondered  among  themselves  watching  his  head, 
sleek  as  a  wet  seal's,  receding  over  the  shining  water. 

The  head  was  full  of  what  Suzanne  had  said. 
Though  he  had  offered  no  agreement  to  her  suggestions, 
he  had  noticed  the  change  in  Esther.  He  had  noticed 
it  soon  after  the  robbery,  in  fact  before  that,  for  it 
had  dated  from  the  evening  when  she  dined  at  his  house, 
the  night  the  jewels  were  taken.  Disturbance  grew 
in  him  as  he  thought :  —  if  so  shallow  a  creature  as 
Suzanne  could  see  it,  others  could.  And  Suzanne  had 
no  sense,  no  realization  of  the  weight  of  words.  She 
might  go  round  chattering  like  a  fool  and  get  the 
girl  talked  about.  It  would  be  the  decent  thing  to  give 
Esther  a  hint,  put  her  wise  to  the  fact  that  she  ought 
to  brighten  up  —  not  give  any  one  a  chance  to  say 
she  was  not  as  she  had  been. 

As  his  long,  muscular  body  slid  through  the  water 
he  decided  to  go  over  and  have  a  talk  with  her.  The 
decision  cheered  him,  for  to  be  with  Esther  Maitland 
was  the  keenest  pleasure  he  knew. 

Suzanne  had  told  him  she  and  her  mother  would  be 
out  that  afternoon,  so  at  three  —  the  hour  they  were 

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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

to  leave  —  he  set  out  for  Grasslands  by  the  wood  path. 
As  he  crossed  the  garden  his  questing  glance  met  an 
encouraging  sight  —  Esther  Maitland  sitting  under  a 
group  of  maples  at  the  end  of  the  terrace.  She  was 
alone,  an  empty  chair  beside  her,  her  head  bowed  over 
a  book. 

Her  welcoming  smile  was  very  sweet;  his  eye  noticed 
a  faint  color  rise  in  her  cheeks  as  he  came  up.  These 
signs  were  so  agreeable  that  he  would  like  to  have  sat 
there,  placidly  enjoying  her  presence,  but  he  was  a 
person  who  once  possessed  by  an  idea  "  had  to  get  it 
out  of  his  system."  This  he  proceeded  to  do,  advanc- 
ing on  his  subject  with  what  he  thought  was  a  crafty 
indirectness : 

"  You  know,  Miss  Maitland,  you're  not  a  credit  to 
Long  Island." 

She  raised  her  brows,  deprecating,  also  amused: 

"What  have  I  done?" 

"  It's  what  you  haven't  done.  We  expect  people 
to  come  here  worn  and  weary  and  then  blossom  like 
the  rose.  You've  gone  back  on  the  tradition." 

She  stretched  a  hand  for  a  bundle  of  knitting  —  a 
soldier's  muffler  —  on  the  table  beside  her : 

"  I  don't  feel  worn  or  weary  and  I'm  sorry  I  look 
so." 

"  Oh,  you  always  look  lovely,"  he  hastily  assured 
her.  "  I  didn't  mean  that  it  wasn't  becoming.  But  — 

118 


Ferguson  s  Idea 


er  —  er  —  what  I  wanted  to  say  was  —  er  —  why  is 
it?  " 

Miss  Maitland  began  to  knit,  her  face  bent  over  the 
work,  her  dark  head  backed  by  the  green  distances  of 
the  lawn.  Ferguson  thought  she  had  the  most  beau- 
tifully shaped  head  he  had  ever  seen.  He  would  like 
to  have  leaned  back  in  his  chair  studying  its  classic 
outline.  But  he  was  there  for  a  purpose  and  he  held 
himself  sternly  to  it,  looking  at  her  profile  and  trying 
to  forget  that  it  was  as  fine  as  her  head. 

"  I  don't  know  why  it  is,"  she  answered,  "  but  I 
do  know  that  you're  not  very  complimentary." 

"  If  you  give  me  a  dare  like  that  I'll  show  you  how 
complimentary  I  can  be.  But  I'll  put  that  off  until 
later.  What  I  think  is  that  you're  worrying  —  that 
the  robbery  has  got  on  your  nerves." 

"  Why  should  it  get  on  my  nerves  ?  " 

He  was  aware  of  her  eyes  —  diverted  from  the  knit- 
ting —  looking  curiously  at  him : 

"  Why,  it's  been  so  —  so  —  unpleasant,  all  this  fuss 
and  publicity.  It's  been  a  shock." 

Her  hands  with  the  knitting  dropped  into  her  lap. 
She  was  now  staring  fixedly  at  him : 

"  Do  you  mean  that  I'm  worrying  because  I  think 
I  may  be  suspected  of  it?" 

He  was  shocked  to  angry  repudiation. 

"  Good  Lord,  no !     What  a  thing  to  say  1 " 
119 


Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

She  took  up  her  work,  and  answered  with  cool  com- 
posure : 

"  Nevertheless  I  have  wondered  if  anybody  ever 
thought  it.  You  see  I'm  the  only  one  in  the  house  — 
the  only  one  who  knows  the  combination  —  who  is  a 
sort  of  stranger.  Dixon  and  Isaac  are  like  members 
of  the  family." 

"  Don't  talk  such  rubbish,"  he  protested,  then  lean- 
ing nearer,  "  Have  you  had  that  on  your  mind  all  this 
time?  Is  that  what's  made  the  change?  " 

She  looked  up  at  him,  startled: 

"  Change  —  what  change?  " 

"  Change  in  you.  Yes,"  in  answer  to  the  disturbed 
inquiry  of  her  glance,  "  there  is  one.  I've  noticed  it ; 
other  people  have." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Why,  you're  different,  you've  lost  your  good 
spirits.  You're  not  like  you  were  before  this  hap- 
pened." 

Her  response  came  with  something  combative  in  its 
countering  quickness : 

"  I'm  busier  than  I  used  to  be.  Since  the  robbery 
I've  taken  over  a  good  deal  of  the  housekeeping.  Mrs. 
Janney  has  been  much  more  upset  than  you  guess." 

"  And  you're  so  withdrawn,  keep  more  to  yourself. 
I  used  to  find  you  about  when  I  came  over;  now  I  al- 
most never  see  you." 

120 


Ferguson's  Idea 


The  interview  had  taken  on  the  character  of  a  verbal 
duel,  he  thrusting,  she  parrying,  both  earnest  and  in- 
sistent. 

"  I've  just  told  you;  I  have  more  work,  I've  not  the 
leisure  I  used  to  have." 

"  So  busy  you  have  to  shun  people?  " 

"  That's  absurd,  you  imagine  it.  I've  never  shunned 
any  one  and  there's  no  reason  why  I  should." 

"  I  agree  with  you  but  let  me  ask  one  more  question. 
You  say  your  work  is  harder  and  you  do  look  tired  and 
worn  out.  Why  don't  you  take  a  decent  rest  on  your 
holidays?  Last  year  you  spent  them  here,  out  of 
doors,  loafing  about.  Now  you  go  to  town.  I've  been 
over  twice  on  Thursdays  and  when  I  ask  for  you,  al- 
ways hear  you're  in  the  city.  And  you've  been  at 
other  times  too  —  Mrs.  Janney  told  me  so.  It's  the 
most  fatiguing  thing  you  can  do  in  this  hot  weather. 
Why  do  you  go  ?  " 

He  saw  her  color  suddenly  deepen.  She  had  let  the 
knitting  drop  to  her  lap  and  now  she  took  it  up  again 
and  began  to  work,  very  fast,  the  needles  flashing  in 
her  white  hands.  She  smiled  as  she  answered : 

"  You  seem  to  have  kept  rather  a  sharp  lookout  on 
me,  Mr.  Ferguson.  Did  it  never  occur  to  you  that  a 
woman  might  need  clothes,  or  might  want  to  see  a 
friend  who  happened  to  be  staying  in  town  for  the 
summer?  " 


Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

The  young  man  had  been  admiring  the  white  hands. 
As  she  spoke  something  in  their  movements  caught  and 
held  his  eye  —  they  were  trembling.  He  was  so  sur- 
prised that  he  made  no  answer,  his  glance  riveted  on 
them  trying  to  hold  the  needles  steady  to  their  task. 
Miss  Maitland  made  an  effort  to  go  on,  then  dropped 
the  knitting  in  a  bunch  on  her  knees  and  clasped  the 
hands  over  it.  Neither  speaking,  their  eyes  met.  The 
expression  of  hers,  furtively  apprehensive  like  a  scared 
child's  pierced  his  heart  and  he  leaned  toward  her,  his 
sunburned  face  full  of  concern: 

"Miss  Maitland,  what's  wrong?  Something  is  — 
tell  me." 

Without  answering  she  shook  her  head,  her  lips 
tightly  compressed.  He  could  see  that  she  was  shaken, 
that  the  clasped  hands  on  her  knee  were  clenched  to- 
gether to  control  their  trembling.  He  could  see  that, 
for  a  moment,  taken  unawares,  she  did  not  trust  her- 
self to  speak. 

"  Look  here,"  he  said,  low  and  urgent,  "  be  frank 
with  me.  I've  seen  for  some  time  something  was  trou- 
bling you  —  I  told  you  so  that  night  at  my  place. 
Why  not  let  me  lend  a  hand?  That's  what  I  want  to 
do  —  that's  what  I'm  for." 

She  had  found  her  voice  and  it  came  with  a  high, 
light  hardness,  in  curious  contrast  to  the  feeling  in 
his: 


Ferguson's  Idea 


"  You're  all  wrong,  Mr.  Ferguson.  You're  seeing 
what  doesn't  exist."  She  started  to  her  feet,  making 
a  grab  at  her  knitting  as  it  slid  toward  the  ground. 
"  Oh,  my  needle !  I  almost  pulled  it  out.  That  would 
have  been  a  calamity."  She  carefully  pushed  the 
stitches  on  to  the  needle  as  if  her  whole  interest  lay 
in  preserving  the  woven  fabric.  "  There  I've  picked 
them  up,  not  lost  one."  Then  she  looked  at  them, 
smiling,  her  expression  showing  a  veiled  defiance,  "  You 
ought  to  have  been  a  novelist  —  your  imagination's 
wasted.  Here  you  are  seeing  me  as  a  distressed  damsel, 
while  I'm  only  a  perfectly  normal,  perfectly  common- 
place person.  Romantic  fiction  would  have  been  your 
line." 

She  gave  a  laugh  that  brought  the  blood  to  the  young 
man's  face,  for  its  musical  ripple  contained  a  note  of 
derision : 

"  But  for  my  sake  please  curb  your  fancy.  Don't 
suggest  to  my  employers  that  I'm  weighted  down  by 
a  secret  sorrow.  They  mightn't  like  a  blighted  being 
for  a  secretary  and  I  might  lose  my  job,  and  then  I 
really  would  be  worried." 

He  stood  it  unflinching,  only  the  dark  flush  betraying 
his  mortification.  He  assured  her  of  his  reticence  and 
ended  by  asking  her  pardon.  She  granted  it,  even 
thanked  him  for  his  concern  in  her  behalf  and  with  a 
smile  that  was  still  mocking,  said  she  had  notes  to 

123 


Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

write,  gathered  up  her  work,  and  bade  him  good-by. 

Dick  Ferguson  walked  back  through  the  woods  to 
Council  Oaks.  When  the  first  discomfort  of  the  re- 
buff had  passed  he  pondered  deeply.  He  was  sure  now 
beyond  the  peradventure  of  a  doubt  that  Esther  Mait- 
land was  in  trouble  of  some  kind,  and  was  ready  to 
use  all  the  weapons  at  her  command  to  keep  him  from 
finding  it  out. 

Two  nights  after  that  he  dined  at  Grasslands.  It 
was  just  a  family  party,  and,  being  such,  Miss  Mait- 
land was  present.  She  met  him  with  the  subdued  quiet- 
ness that  he  was  beginning  to  recognize  as  her  "  social 
secretary  manner  " —  the  manner  of  the  lady  employee, 
politely  colorless  and  self-effacing. 

In  the  dining  room,  with  its  clustered  lights  along 
the  walls,  where  long  windows  framed  the  deep  blue 
night,  they  looked  a  gay  and  goodly  party.  To  the 
unenlightened  observer  they  might  have  stood  for  a 
typical  group  of  the  care-free  rich,  waited  on  by 
obsequious  menials,  feeding  sumptuously  in  sumptuous 
surroundings.  Yet  each  one  of  them  was  preyed  upon 
by  secret  anxieties. 

When  the  ladies  withdrew  Mr.  Janney  and  Ferguson 
sat  on  smoking  and  sipping  their  coffee.  If  every 
member  of  the  party  had  his  hidden  distress,  Mr.  Jan- 
ney's  was  by  no  means  the  least.  His  problem  was 
still  unsolved,  still  menacing.  Kissam's  suggestion  and 


Ferguson's  Idea 


his  own  fond  hope,  that  the  jewels  would  be  restored 
had  not  been  realized,  and  he  was  contemplating  the 
day  when  he  would  have  to  face  Suzanne  with  his  knowl- 
edge. Damocles  beneath  the  suspended  sword  was  not 
more  uncomfortable  than  he.  Any  allusion  to  the  rob- 
bery made  his  heart  sink,  and,  as  the  allusions  were 
frequent,  conversation  had  become  a  thing  harkened  to 
with  held  breath  and  sick  anticipation. 

Alone  with  Ferguson  he  was  experiencing  the  usual 
qualms,  but  the  young  man,  instead  of  the  customary 
questions,  asked  him  his  opinion  of  Willitts,  Chapman's 
valet,  whom  he  thought  of  engaging.  Mr.  Janney 
brightened  up,  told  Dixon  to  bring  some  of  his  own 
especial  cigars,  and  relapsed  into  tranquillity.  He 
could  recommend  Willitts  highly,  smart,  capable  and 
honest,  but  he  thought  he'd  heard  Dick  say  he  couldn't 
stand  a  valet  fussing  about  him.  Dick  had  said  it 
and  was  still  of  the  same  mind,  but  most  of  his  guests 
were  men  and  he  needed  some  one  to  look  after  their 
clothes.  They  made  a  lot  of  bother,  tl?e  servants  had 
kicked,  and  he'd  thought  of  Willitts. 

Mr.  Janney  could  give  no  information  as  to  Willitts' 
whereabouts,  but  Dixon,  entering  with  the  cigar  box 
and  lamp,  could.  Willitts  was  at  Cedar  Brook  where 
Mr.  Price  spent  a  good  deal  of  time;  he  was  still  dis- 
engaged and  looking  for  a  position,  if  Mr.  Ferguson 
would  like  Dixon  would  get  word  to  him.  Mr.  Ferguson 

125 


Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

would  like,  and,  the  box  presented  at  his  elbow,  he 
took  out  a  cigar  and  held  its  tip  to  the  lamp.  Mr. 
Janney  forgot  Willitts  and  drew  his  guest's  attention 
to  the  cigar,  a  special  brand  of  rare  excellence. 

"  We  keep  them  in  the  safe,"  said  the  old  man. 
"  Only  place  that's  secure  against  the  damp.  It  was 
Chapman's  idea  —  the  one  thing  in  my  acquaintance 
with  Chapman  I'm  grateful  for." 

It  was  an  unfortunate  remark,  for  Ferguson,  lean- 
ing back  in  his  chair  with  the  cigar  between  his  lips,4 
murmured  dreamily: 

"  The  safe  —  do  you  know  I've  been  thinking  over 
things  lately.  I  can't  understand  one  point.  Why 
didn't  the  thief  take  those  jewels  when  the  house  was 
virtually  empty  instead  of  waiting  until  it  was  full  ?  " 

Mr.  Janney's  heart  took  a  dizzying,  downward  dive. 
He  had  been  looking  forward  to  his  smoke,  now  all  his 
zest  departed,  his  old,  veined  hand  shaking  as  it  felt 
in  the  box. 

Ferguson  we,nt  on: 

"  The  fellow  may  have  come  in  early  and  hidden 
himself  —  not  got  down  to  business  until  every  one 
was  asleep." 

Mr.  Janney  emitted  an  agreeing  murmur  and  mo- 
tioned Dixon  to  hold  the  lamp  nearer.  As  he  bent 
toward  it  the  young  man  was  silent  and  Mr.  Janney 
began  to  hope  that  the  obnoxious  subject  was  aban- 

126 


doned.  He  sent  a  side  glance  at  his  guest  and  the  hope 
was  strengthened.  Ferguson  had  taken  his  cigar  from 
his  lips  and  was  looking  at  the  paper  band  that  en- 
circled it.  He  was  looking  at  it  so  intently  that  Mr. 
Janney  felt  sure  his  interest  was  diverted  and  sought  to 
drive  it  into  safer  channels. 

"Pretty  fine  cigar,  eh?"  he  said.  "This  is  the 
first  of  a  new  lot,  just  come." 

Ferguson  drew  the  band  off  and  laid  it  beside  his 
plate : 

"  Excellent.  That's  a  good  idea  —  keeping  them 
in  the  safe.  Do  you  always  do  it?  " 

"  Yes,  it's  the  only  thing  —  much  better  than  a 
humidor." 

"  I  haven't  got  a  safe  or  I'd  try  it.  Did  you  have 
any  there  the  night  of  the  robbery?  " 

Mr.  Janney  felt  that  the  gods  had  sought  him  out 
for  a  special  vengeance  and  murmured  drearily : 

"  I  believe  so  —  a  few.     Dixon  knows." 

Dixon  who  was  on  his  way  to  the  door  turned: 

"  Yes,  sir,  only  one  box,  the  last  we  had." 

Ferguson  laughed: 

"  If  the  thief  had  had  time  to  try  one  he'd  have 
taken  the  box  along  too." 

Dixon,  who  treated  all  allusions  to  the  subject  with 
a  tragical  seriousness,  said: 

"  I  don't  think  he  touched  them,  sir.  The  box  looked 
127 


Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

just  the  same.  Mr.  Kissam  was  very  particular  to 
ask  about  it,  but  I  told  him  I  thought  they  was  in- 
tact, as  you  might  say.  Though  if  it  was  the  loss  of 
one  or  two  I  couldn't  be  certain." 

Dixon  left  the  room  and  Mr.  Janney  looked  dismally 
at  his  plate,  having  no  spirit  to  fight  against  fate. 
Ferguson,  with  a  glance  at  his  down-drooped  face, 
picked  up  the  band  and  slipped  it  in  his  pocket. 

He  did  not  stay  long  after  dinner.  As  soon  as  his 
car  came  he  left,  telling  the  chauffeur  to  hurry.  At 
home  he  ran  up  the  stairs  to  his  room,  switched  on 
the  light  over  the  bureau  and  opened  the  box  with  the 
crystal  lid.  Under  the  studs  and  pins  lay  the  band 
Esther  had  found  the  night  he  walked  with  her  through 
the  woods.  He  compared  it  with  the  one  he  took  from 
his  pocket  and  saw  that  they  matched.  The  new  one 
he  threw  into  the  fireplace,  but  put  the  other  back  in 
the  box  —  it  was  something  more  than  a  souvenir. 
Then  he  sat  down  on  the  end  of  the  sofa  and  thought. 

Mr.  Janney  could  not  have  dropped  it  for  he  had 
driven  both  to  and  from  Council  Oaks.  Neither  Dixon 
nor  Isaac  could  have,  for  they  had  gone  to  the  village 
by  the  main  road  and  come  back  the  same  way  at  mid- 
night. He  had  found  it  at  half-past  ten,  untouched  by 
the  heavy  shower,  which  had  lasted  from  about  seven 
till  half-past  eight.  Therefore,  whoever  had  thrown 
it  there  had  passed  that  way  between  the  time  when 

128 


the  rain  stopped  and  the  time  when  Esther  had  found 
it.  It  had  been  dropped  either  by  a  man  who  had  one 
of  the  cigars  in  his  possession  and  had  been  on  the 
wood  path  between  eight-thirty  and  ten-thirty,  or  by 
a  man  who  had  taken  a  cigar  from  the  safe  between 
those  hours. 

Ferguson  sat  staring  at  the  wall  with  his  brows  knit. 
If  it  had  not  been  for  the  light  his  own  gardener  had 
seen  he  would  have  felt  that  he  had  struck  the  right 
road. 


129 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE    MAN    WHO    WOULDN'T    TELL 

MR.  LARKIN  had  lingered  on  at  Cedar  Brook. 
He  said  that  he  needed  a  holiday,  the  pros- 
perity of  the  last  year  had  worn  him  out, 
also  the  bungalow  sites  were  many  and  a  decision  diffi- 
cult. 

He  saw  a  good  deal  of  Willitts ;  they  had  become  very 
friendly,  almost  chums.  Their  lodgings  were  but  a 
few  yards  apart  and  of  evenings  they  smoked  neigh- 
borly pipes  on  the  porch  steps,  and  of  afternoons  took 
walks  into  the  country.  During  these  hours  their  talk 
ranged  over  many  subjects,  the  valet  proving  himself 
a  brightly  loquacious  companion.  But  upon  a  sub- 
ject that  Mr.  Larkin  introduced  with  delicate  artful- 
ness —  Price  and  Esther  Maitland  —  he  maintained  the 
evasive  reticence  that  had  marked  him  at  their  first 
meeting.  For  all  the  walks  and  talks  Mr.  Larkin 
learned  no  more,  and  as  his  curiosity  remained  unsat- 
isfied his  inclination  for  Willitts'  society  increased. 

It  was  a  few  days  after  that  first  meeting  that,  stroll- 
ing down  Main  Street  toward  Sommers'  garage,  the 

130 


The  Man  Who  Wouldn't  Tell 

detective  stopped  short,  staring  at  two  figures  emerg- 
ing from  the  garage  entrance.  One  was  Sommers,  the 
other  a  fat,  red-faced  man  with  a  sunburned  Panama  on 
the  back  of  his  head.  A  glance  at  this  man  and  Mr. 
Larkin  turned  on  his  heel  and  made  down  a  side  lane  at 
a  swinging  gait.  Safe  out  of  range  behind  a  lilac 
hedge,  he  slowed  up,  lifted  his  hat  from  a  perspiring 
brow  and  swore  to  himself,  low  and  fiercely.  He  had 
recognized  Gus  O'Malley,  private  detective  of  Whit- 
ney &  Whitney,  and  he  knew  that  Whitney  &  Whitney 
were  Mrs.  Janney's  lawyers.  Another  investigation 
was  on  foot,  evidently  following  on  the  lines  of  his 
own. 

After  two  days  O'Malley  left  by  the  evening  train  and 
Mr.  Larkin  emerged  from  a  temporary  retirement,  and 
sought  coolness  and  solitude  on  the  front  porch.  Here, 
when  night  had  fallen,  Willitts  joined  him  taking  a 
seat  on  the  top  step. 

The  house  behind  them  was  empty  of  all  other  ten- 
ants, its  open  front  door  letting  a  long  gush  of  light 
down  the  steps  and  across  the  pebbled  path  to  the 
gate.  It  was  a  warm  night,  heavy  and  breathless,  and 
Mr.  Larkin,  in  his  shirt  sleeves,  lolled  comfortably,  his 
chair  tilted  back,  his  feet  on  the  railing.  The  place 
where  he  sat  was  shaded  with  vines,  and  he  was  dis- 
cernible as  a  long,  out-stretched  bulk,  detailless  in 
the  shadow. 

131 


Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

Willitts  had  gcod  news  to  impart ;  that  afternoon 
he  had  been  to  Council  Oaks  to  see  Mr.  Ferguson  who 
had  engaged  him  as  valet.  It  was  an  Al  place,  the  pay 
high,  the  duties  light,  Mr.  Ferguson  known  to  be  gen- 
erous and  easy  tempered.  Congratulations  were  in 
order  from  Mr.  Larkin,  and  if  they  lacked  in  warmth 
Willitts  did  not  appear  to  notice  it. 

A  pause  fell,  and  his  next  remark  caused  the  detec- 
tive to  deflect  his  gaze  from  the  darkling  street  to  the 
head  of  the  steps: 

"  Did  you  notice  a  chap  about  here  yesterday  —  a 
fat,  untidy  looking  man  in  a  Panama  hat  and  a  brown 
sack  suit?  " 

Mr.  Larkin  had  and  wanted  to  know  where  Willitts 
had  seen  him. 

"  In  Sommers'  garage.  He  was  hiring  a  motor, 
wanted  to  see  the  country  —  and  Sommers  telling  him 
I  knew  it  well,  asked  me  to  go  with  him." 

"Did  you  go?" 

"  I  did ;  I  had  nothing  else  to  do.  We  went  a  long 
way,  through  Berkeley  and  beyond.  He's  what  you'd 
call  here  *  some  talker '  and  curious  —  I'd  say  very 
curious  if  you  asked  me." 

"  Curious  about  what  ?  " 

"  Everything  in  the  neighborhood,  but  especially  the 
robbery." 

"  Did  he  have  any  theories  about  it?  " 


The  Man  Who  Wouldn't  Tell 

"  None  that  I  hadn't  heard  before." 

The  detective  laughed: 

"  That  accounts  for  the  drive  —  hoped  he'd  get 
some  racy  gossip  about  the  family  out  of  you." 

"  Maybe  that  was  his  idea." 

"  Of  course  it  was.  I'll  bet  he  pumped  you  about 
Price." 

"  I  don't  know  that  I'd  call  it  pumping  —  he  did 
ask  some  questions." 

Willitts  was  sitting  with  his  elbows  on  his  knees, 
his  hands  supporting  his  chin.  The  light  from  the  open 
door  behind  him  lay  over  his  back,  gilded  the  top  of  his 
smooth  head  and  slanted  across  his  cheek.  He  was 
not  smoking  and  he  was  very  still,  facts  noted  by  Mr. 
Larkin. 

The  detective  stretched,  yawned  with  a  sleepy  sound 
and  said: 

"  So  it's  still  a  subject  of  popular  curiosity,  is 
it?" 

"  Yes,  it  is,  but  why  should  Mr.  Price  be?  " 

The  valet's  voice  was  low  and  quiet,  holding  a  quality 
hard  to  define;  the  listener  decided  it  was  less  un- 
easiness than  resentment.  After  a  moment's  silence 
he  spoke  again,  very  softly,  as  if  the  words  were  self- 
communings : 

"  I'd  like  to  know  who  the  feller  is." 

Mr.  Larkin's  feet  came  down  from  the  rail  striking 
133 


Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

the  floor  with  a  thud.     He  sat  up  and  looked  at  his 
friend : 

"  I  can  tell  you.  He's  a  defective,  Gus  O'Malley, 
employed  by  Whitney  &  Whitney." 

Willitts'  hands  dropped  and  he  squared  round: 

"A  detective!  That's  it,  is  it?  That  accounts  for 
the  milk  in  the  cocoanut.  I  might  have  guessed  it. 
And  what's  he  after  me  for?  " 

"  You  lived  at  Grasslands.  Something  might  be  dug 
out  of  you." 

"  But  tell  me,  why  should  he  be  curious  about  Mr. 
Price?" 

He  had  dropped  one  hand  on  the  flooring  and  sup- 
ported by  it  leaned  forward  toward  his  companion. 
The  boyish  good  humor  had  gone  from  his  face;  it 
looked  sharp-set  and  pugnacious. 

The  other  shrugged: 

"  Ask  him.  All  I  can  tell  you  is  that  Whitney  & 
Whitney  are  Mrs.  Janney's  lawyers." 

Willitts  pondered,  and  while  he  pondered  his  eyes 
stared  past  the  shadowy  shape  that  was  Mr.  Larkin 
into  the  vine-draped  blackness  of  the  porch.  Then  he 
said: 

"  Mrs.  Janney's  down  on  Mr.  Price.  She's  all  for 
her  daughter.  I  think  she  'ates  Jim." 

The  two  h's  dropped  off  with  a  simple  unconscious- 
ness that  surprised  Mr.  Larkin.  Never  before  in  his 

134 


The  Han  Who  Wouldn't  Tell 

intercourse  with  Willitts  had  he  heard  the  letter  so 
much  as  slighted.  He  made  a  mental  note  of  it  and 
said  dryly: 

"  So  I've  heard." 

The  man  again  relapsed  into  thought,  his  glance 
riveted  on  the  darkness,  his  expression  obviously  per- 
turbed. Suddenly  he  looked  at  the  vague  bulk  of  Mr. 
Larkin  and  said  sharply: 

"  'Ow  do  you  know  so  much  about  'im?  " 

Mr.  Larkin's  answer  came  out  of  the  shadow  with 
businesslike  promptness : 

"  Because  I'm  a  detective  myself." 

For  a  moment  the  valet's  face  seemed  to  set,  lose 
its  flesh  and  blood  mobility  and  harden  into  something 
stony,  its  lines  fixed,  vitality  suspended, —  a  vacuous, 
staring  mask.  Then  life  came  back  to  it,  broke  its  ici- 
ness  and  flooded  it  with  a  frank,  almost  ludicrous  as- 
tonishment. 

"  You  —  you !  "  he  stammered  out,  "  and  me  never 
so  much  as  thinking  it!  Would  any  one,  I'm  asking 
you?  Would — "  he  stopped,  his  amazement  gone,  a 
sudden  belligerent  fierceness  taking  its  place,  "  And  are 
you  after  Mr.  Price  too?" 

Mr.  Larkin  laughed: 

"  I'm  after  no  one  at  this  stage.  I'm  only  assem- 
bling data.  If  O'Malley's  got  to  the  point  of  finding  a 
suspect  he's  far  ahead  of  me." 

135 


Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

Willitts'  excitement  instantly  subsided;  his  answer 
showed  a  hurried  urgence: 

"  No,  no  —  he  didn't  say  anything  one  could  take 
'old  of  —  only  a  few  questions.  And  it's  maybe  all 
in  my  feelings.  I  couldn't  bear  a  person  to  think  evil 
of  Mr.  Price.  It  'urts  me;  I'd  be  sensitive;  I  might 
see  it  if  it  wasn't  there." 

"  If  you  got  that  impression  I  guess  it  was  there." 

This  remark,  delivered  with  a  sardonic  dryness,  ap- 
peared to  rekindle  Willitts'  anger.  It  flared  up  like 
the  leap  of  a  flame : 

"  Then  to  'ell  with  'im.  If  they're  working  up  any 
dirty  suspicions  against  my  gentleman  they've  come 
to  the  wrong  man.  I've  got  nothing  to  say ;  there's  no 
information  to  be  wormed  out  of  me  for  I  'ave  none. 
Umph  —  lies,  trickery  —  that's  what  /  call  it !  " 

He  dropped  back  into  his  former  position,  his  angry 
breathings  loud  on  the  silence,  mutterings  of  rage  break- 
ing through  them. 

"  Well,"  said  Mr.  Larkin,  "  now  I've  put  you  wise 
you  can  form  your  own  conclusion  as  to  what's  in  their 
minds." 

"Is  it  in  yours,  too?" 

The  question  came  quick,  shot  out  between  the  deep- 
drawn  breaths.  Mr.  Larkin  was  ready  for  it: 

"  I  told  you  I  hadn't  got  as  far  as  that ;  I'm  just 
feeling  my  way.  But  let  me  say  something  to  you." 

136 


The  Man  Who  Wouldn't  Tell 

He  rose  and,  going  to  the  steps,  sat  down  beside  Wil- 
litts,  dropping  his  voice  to  a  confidential  key.  "  I'll 
be  frank  with  you  —  I'll  show  you  how  I  stand.  I 
didn't  intend  to  tell  you  what  I  was,  but  this  fellow 
coming  up  here  has  forced  my  hand.  He  knows  me, 
he'll  be  after  you  again,  and  you'd  have  found  it  out. 
Now,  here's  my  position:  I  want  to  get  this  case;  it's 
my  first  big  one  and  it'll  make  me  every  way  —  pro- 
fessionally and  financially." 

He  looked  at  the  man  beside  him  who,  gazing  into 
the  street,  nodded  without  speaking. 

"  There's  ten  thousand  dollars  offered  for  the  res- 
toration of  the  jewels.  If  I  could  get  them  I'd  share 
that  money  with  the  person  who  —  who  —  er  — 
helped." 

Willitts  repeated  his  silent  nod. 

"  And  even  if  I  didn't  get  them  I'd  pay  and  pay 
•well  for  any  information  that  would  be  useful." 

"  I  see,"  said  the  other,  "  'oever  'elps  along  in  the 
good  work  gets  'is  reward." 

Mr.  Larkin  did  not  like  the  words  or  the  tone,  but 
went  on,  his  confidential  manner  growing  persuasive: 

"  I'm  engaged  on  the  side  of  law  and  order.  All 
I'm  trying  to  do  is  to  restore  stolen  property  to  its 
owner.  Any  one  that  helps  me  is  only  doing  his 
duty." 

"  A  duty  that  gets  its  dues,  as  you  might  say." 
137 


Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

"  Exactly.  The  money  made  by  such  services  is 
earned  honestly  and  there's  plenty  of  it  to  earn." 

"  Righto !  When  the  Janneys  want  a  thing  they'll 
open  the  purse  wide  and  generous." 

"And  here's  a  point  worth  noticing:  What  I'm 
hired  for  is  to  get  the  jewels,  not  the  thief.  The  party 
behind  me  isn't  out  for  vengeance  or  prosecution.  If 
I  could  deliver  the  goods  it  would  be  all  right  and  no 
questions  asked.  But  the  Whitneys  wouldn't  stop 
there  —  they're  bloodhounds  when  it  comes  to  the  chase. 
If  they  got  anything  on  Price  they'd  come  down  on  him 
good  and  hard  and  Mrs.  Janney'd  stand  in  with  them." 

He  was  looking  with  anxious  intentness  at  Willitts' 
profile.  As  he  finished  it  turned  slowly,  until  the  face 
was  offered  in  full  to  his  watchful  scrutiny.  It  was  for- 
bidding, the  eyes  sweeping  him  with  a  cold  contempt: 

"  I  can't  'elp  understanding  you,  Larkin,  and  I'm 
sorry  to  'ear  you  got  your  suspicions  of  my  gentleman 
and  of  me.  The  first  is  too  low  to  take  notice  of;  the 
second  is  as  bad,  but  I'll  answer  it  to  put  us  both 
straight.  I'm  not  the  kind  you  take  me  for ;  I'm  not  to 
be  bought.  Even  if  I  did  know  anything  that  would  be 
*  useful '  as  you  say,  wild  'orses  wouldn't  drag  it  out 
of  me.  And  no  more  will  filthy  lucre.  Filthy  —  it's 
the  right  name  for  it,  you  couldn't  get  a  better."  He 
rose,  not  so  much  angry  as  hurt  and  haughty.  "  I 
can't  find  it  in  me  to  sit  'ere  any  longer.  I  could  talk 

138 


of  insults,  but  I  won't.  All  I'll  say  is  that  I've  'ad 
a  bit  too  much,  and  not  wanting  to  'ear  more  I'll  bid 
you  good-night." 

Before  the  detective  could  find  words  to  answer  he 
had  gone  down  the  path  and  vanished  in  the  darkness. 


139 


CHAPTER  XIII 

MOLLY'S  STORY 

ONE  of  the  chief  features  of  detective  work  is 
that  you  must  be  able  to  change  your  mind. 
That  may  not  sound  hard  —  especially  when 
the  owner  of  the  mind  happens  to  be  a  female  —  but 
believe  me  it's  some  stunt.     You  get  pointed  one  way, 
and  to  have  to  shift  and  face  round  in  another  is  candy 
for  a  weather  vane  but  bread  for  a  sleuth. 

Well,  that's  what  happened  to  me.  In  the  week 
that  followed  my  visit  to  the  Whitneys  I  had  to  start 
out  fresh  on  a  new  line  of  thought.  I'd  left  the  office 
pretty  certain,  as  the  others  were,  that  the  bond  be- 
tween Esther  Maitland  and  Chapman  Price  was  love, 
and  before  those  seven  days  were  gone  I'd  thrown  that 
theory  into  the  discard,  rolled  up  my  sleeves,  taken  a 
cinch  in  my  belt,  and  set  forth  to  blaze  a  new  trail. 

I  came  round  to  it  slow  at  first  and  I  came  round 
through  Mr.  Ferguson.  It  was  fine  weather  and  when 
Bebita  would  go  off  with  Annie,  I'd  curl  up  in  my  con- 
ning tower  in  the  school  room  window  and  take  observa- 
tions. As  I  said  before,  it  was  a  convenient  place,  just 

140 


Molly's  Story 


over  Miss  Maitland's  study,  deserted  all  afternoon,  and 
with  the  Venetian  blinds  down  against  the  sun,  I  could 
sit  comfortable  on  my  cushion  and  spy  out  between 
the  slats. 

The  first  thing  that  caught  my  attention  was  that 
Mr.  Ferguson,  who'd  come  over  pretty  nearly  every  day, 
wouldn't  make  straight  for  the  front  piazza  which  was 
the  natural  way  to  get  there.  Instead  he'd  take  a 
slanting  course  across  the  garden,  come  up  some  steps 
to  the  terrace,  and  then  walk  slow  past  the  study  door. 
Sometimes  he'd  see  Miss  Maitland  and  stop  for  a  chat, 
and  sometimes  she  wouldn't  be  there  and  he'd  go  by. 
But  each  and  every  time,  thinking  no  one  was  watching, 
he'd  let  a  look  come  on  his  face  that's  common  to  the 
whole  male  sex  when  the  one  particular  star  is  ex- 
pected above  the  horizon.  I  guess  the  cave  man  got 
it  when,  club  in  hand,  he  was  chasing  the  cave  girl  and 
Solomon  with  his  six  hundred  wives  must  have  had  it 
stamped  on  his  features  so  it  came  to  be  his  habitual 
expression. 

Though  it  was  registered  good  and  plain  on  Mr. 
Ferguson's  countenance,  I  couldn't  at  first  believe  it. 
It  was  too  like  a  novel,  too  like  Cinderella  and  the 
Prince.  Then,  seeing  it  so  frequent,  I  was  convinced. 
I'd  say  to  myself  "  Why  not  —  a  girl's  a  girl  if  she  is 
a  plutocrat's  social  secretary,  and  all  men  are  free  and 
equal  when  it  comes  to  disposing  of  their  young  affec- 

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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

tions."  The  romance  of  it  got  me,  gripped  at  my 
heart.  I'd  sit  with  my  eye  to  the  crack  in  the  blinds 
staring  down  at  him  as  he'd  send  that  look  out  for  her 

—  that  wonderful  look,  that  look  which  gives  you  chills 
and  fever,  blind  staggers  and  heart  failure  and  you'd 
rather  have  than  a  blank  check  drawn  to  your  order  and 
signed  by  John  Rockefeller.     Oh,  gee  —  I  was  a  girl 
once  myself  —  don't  I  know !     I'd  have  been  interested 
if  it  was  just  an  ordinary  love  story,  but  it  wasn't. 
It  was  a  love  story  with  a  mystery  for  good  meas- 
ure; it  was  a  love  story  that  had  Mrs.  Price  thrown 
in  to  complicate  the  plot;  it  was  a  love  story  that  was 
all  tangled  up  with  other  elements ;  and  it  was  a  love 
story  that  I  only  could  see  one  side  of. 

For  I  couldn't  get  at  her  feelings  at  all.  This  was 
mostly  because  I  hardly  ever  saw  her  with  him.  If  she 
did  happen  to  be  there  when  he  passed,  she'd  be  either 
in  her  room  or  under  the  balcony  roof  and  I  couldn't  see 
how  she  acted  or  hear  what  she  said.  Also  she  had 
such  a  hold  on  herself,  had  such  a  calm,  reserved  way 
with  her,  that  you'd  have  to  be  a  clairvoyant  to  get 
under  her  guard. 

Any  woman  would  have  been  thrilled  but  me,  knowing 
what  I  did  —  can't  you  see  my  thoughts  going  round  in 
wheels  and  whirligigs  ?  If  she  reciprocated  —  and 
there's  few  that  wouldn't  or  I  don't  know  my  own  sex 

—  what  was  she  doing  with  Price?     Was  she  a  siren 


Molly's  Story 


playing  the  two  of  them?  Was  she  Mrs.  Price's  secret 
rival  with  both  men?  Was  she  the  kind  of  vampire 
heroine  they  have  in  plays  who  can  break  up  a  burglar- 
proof  home  with  one  hand  tied  behind  her?  You 
wouldn't  think  it  to  look  at  her  —  but  the  more  I  hit 
the  high  spots  of  society  the  more  I  feel  you  can't 
tell  people  by  the  ordinary  trade-marks. 

Then  one  afternoon  toward  the  end  of  the  week  I 
saw  a  little  scene  right  under  my  window  that  lightened 
up  the  darkness.  It  gave  me  what  I  call  facts ;  what 
the  Whitneys,  anyway  Mr.  George  —  but  that  belongs 
farther  on. 

Mr.  Ferguson  came  out  of  the  wood  path,  Across  the 
garden  and  on  his  usual  beat,  up  the  terrace  steps.  He 
had  a  spray  of  lemon  verbena  in  his  hand  and  as  he 
walked  over  the  grass  with  his  long,  light  stride,  he 
kept  his  eyes  on  the  balcony  keen  and  expectant,  his 
face  all  eager  and  serious.  Suddenly  it  changed, 
brightened,  softened,  glowed  like  the  sunlight  had  fallen 
on  it  —  you  didn't  need  to  be  a  detective  to  know  she'd 
come  out  of  the  study. 

This  time  she  came  down  the  steps  and  went  toward 
him.  They  met  under  my  window  and  stood  there,  he 
facing  me,  brushing  his  lips  with  the  spray  of  lemon 
verbena  and  looking  down  at  her,  a  lover  if  ever  I  saw 
one.  He  asked  her  what  she  was  doing  that  afternoon, 
and  she  said  going  for  a  walk,  and  when  he  wanted  to 

143 


Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

know  where,  she  said  through  the  woods  to  the  beach. 
"A  solitary  walk?"  he  asked  and  she  said  yes,  her 
walks  were  always  solitary. 

"  By  preference  ?  " 

She  turned  half  away  from  him  and  I  could  see  her 
profile.  I'd  hardly  have  known  it  for  Miss  Maitland's, 
soft,  shy,  the  cheek  pink.  Her  eyes  were  on  the  toe 
of  her  shoe,  white  against  the  green  grass,  and  with 
her  head  drooping  she  was  like  a  girl,  bashful  and 
blushing  before  her  beau. 

"  It  generally  is  by  preference,"  she  said. 

"  Would  it  exclude  me,"  he  asked,  "  if  I  tried  to 
butt  in?  " 

She  didn't  answer  for  a  moment,  then  said  very  low : 

"  Not  if  you  really  wanted  to  come  —  didn't  do  it 
just  to  be  kind  to  a  lonesome  lady." 

"Lonesome  lady  be  hanged,"  he  exclaimed  as  joyful 
as  if  she'd  given  him  a  kiss,  "  it's  just  the  other  way 
round  —  kindness  to  a  lonesome  gentleman.  I'm  ter- 
ribly lonesome  this  afternoon." 

But  he  wasn't  going  to  be  long  —  far  from  it. 
Round  the  corner  of  the  house,  walking  soft  as  a  cat, 
came  Mrs.  Price.  She  made  me  think  of  a  cat  every 
way,  stepping  so  stealthy,  her  body  so  slim  and  lithe, 
a  small,  secret  smile  on  her  face  as  if  she'd  come  on  two 
nice  little  helpless  mice.  She  was  all  in  white,  shining 
and  spotless,  a  tennis  racket  in  one  hand,  a  bunch  of 


Molly's  Story 


letters  in  the  other.  They  didn't  see  her  and  she  got 
quite  close,  then  said,  sweet  and  smooth  as  treacle: 

"  Good  afternoon,  Dick." 

They  weren't  doing  anything  but  planning  a  walk, 
but  they  both  started  like  it  had  been  a  murder. 

"  Oh,"  says  Mr.  Ferguson,  looking  blankly  discon- 
certed, "  oh,  Suzanne,  I  didn't  see  you.  How  do  you  do 
—  good  afternoon." 

She  came  to  a  halt  and  stood  softly  swinging  her 
racket,  looking  at  him  with  that  mean,  cold  smile. 

"  I  was  in  my  room  and  saw  you  so  I  came  down  at 
once.  It's  a  splendid  afternoon  for  our  game,  not  a 
breath  of  wind." 

I  saw,  and  she  saw,  and  I  guess  any  but  a  blind  man 
could  have  seen,  he'd  a  date  to  play  tennis  with  her  and 
had  forgotten  it.  Of  course  a  woman  would  have 
scrambled  out,  had  something  to  offer  that  made  a  noise 
like  an  excuse ;  but  that  poor  prune  of  a  man  —  they're 
all  alike  when  a  quick  lie's  needed  —  couldn't  think  of 
a  thing  to  say.  He  just  stood  between  them,  looking 
haunted  and  stammering  out  such  gems  of  thought  as, 
"  Our  game  —  of  course  our  game  —  I  hadn't  noticed 
it  but  there  is  no  wind." 

She  had  him ;  he  couldn't  throw  her  down  after  he'd 
made  the  engagement,  and  with  her  there  he  couldn't  say 
what  he  wanted  to  Esther  Maitland.  And  neither  of 
them  helped  him ;  Mrs.  Price  listened  to  his  flounderings 

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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

with  the  little  smile,  light  and  cool  on  her  painted  lips, 
and  Miss  Maitland  stood  by,  not  a  word  out  of  her.  I 
noticed  that  Mrs.  Price  never  looked  at  her,  acted  as 
if  she  wasn't  there,  and  presently  Ferguson,  getting 
desperate,  turns  to  her  and  says : 

"  How  about  taking  our  walk  later  —  after  Mrs. 
Price  and  I  have  finished  our  game?" 

The  girl  got  red,  burning;  she  started  to  answer,  but 
Mrs.  Price  cut  in,  for  the  first  time  addressing  her : 

"  Oh,  Miss  Maitland,  that  reminds  me  —  I  want  these 
letters  answered,  if  you'll  be  so  kind.  Just  follow  the 
notes  on  the  edges,  and  please  do  it  as  soon  as  possible 
—  they're  rather  important.  They  must  go  out  on 
the  evening  mail." 

She  handed  the  letters  to  the  girl  and  Esther  Mait- 
land took  them  with  a  murmur.  I  know  that  kind  of 
answer  —  it's  the  agreeing  response  of  the  wage-earner. 
It  comes  soft  and  polite  —  it  has  to  —  but  like  the 
pleasant  rippling  of  the  ocean  on  the  beach  it's  not  the 
only  sound  that  element  can  give  forth. 

Ferguson  tried  to  say  something;  he  was  mad  and 
mortified  and  everything  else  he  ought  to  have  been,  but 
she  wouldn't  give  him  a  chance. 

"  Come  along,  Dick,"  she  says,  bright  and  easy, 
"  you've  kept  me  waiting  which  is  very  rude,  but  I'm 
in  a  good  humor  and  I'll  forgive  you.  There's  a  racket 
at  the  court  —  we  were  playing  there  this  morning. 

146 


You  can  walk  with  Miss  Maitland  some  other  day.  I'm 
afraid  she'll  have  to  attend  to  my  work  this  after- 
noon." 

He  got  balky,  lingered,  looked  at  Miss  Maitland,  but 
she  turned  sharply  away  and  moved  toward  the  bal- 
cony. So  there  was  nothing  for  him  to  do  but  to  go 
off  with  his  captor.  I  couldn't  but  look  after  them, 
both  in  beautiful  white  clothes,  both  rich,  both  young, 
he  so  tall,  she  so  slim,  for  all  the  world  like  a  picture 
of  lovers  on  the  cover  of  a  magazine.  Then  I  switched 
back  to  Miss  Maitland.  She's  come  to  a  halt,  right 
below  the  window,  and,  standing  there  like  a  graven 
image,  was  watching  them. 

I  never  saw  any  one  so  still.  You  wouldn't  have 
known  she  was  alive  except  for  her  eyes  which  moved 
after  them,  moved  and  moved,  until  the  pair  disap- 
peared behind  the  rose-covered  trellis  that  hid  the 
courts.  Then  she  let  out  a  sound,  a  smothered  ejacula- 
tion that  you  couldn't  spell  with  letters ;  but  you  didn't 
need  to,  it  said  more  than  printed  pages.  Rage  was 
in  it  and  pain  and  love.  They  were  in  her  face,  too, 
stamped  and  cut  into  it.  I  wouldn't  have  known  it  for 
hers,  it  was  all  marred  and  tragic,  a  pitiful,  dreadful 
face. 

She  looked  blankly  at  the  letters  in  her  hand,  at  first 
as  if  she  didn't  know  what  they  were,  then  crumpled 
them,  threw  them  on  the  ground  and  made  a  run  for 

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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

the  balcony.  She  was  almost  there,  I  craning  my  neck 
to  keep  her  in  sight,  when  she  stopped,  wheeled  around, 
went  back  to  the  scattered  papers  and  picked  them  up. 
"  Oh,  bread  and  butter,"  I  thought,  "  bread  and  butter ! 
Aren't  you  cursing  it  now?"  Bad  as  I  believed  her 
to  be  I  couldn't  but  be  sorry  for  her,  for  I've  been 
in  that  position  myself.  Take  it  from  me,  licking  the 
hand  that  feeds  you  is  a  job  that  comes  hard  to  the 
worst  of  us. 

She  pressed  out  the  letters,  smoothed  away  the  creases 
slow  and  careful  and  came  back  to  the  balcony.  Just 
before  she  disappeared  under  it  she  stopped  and  lifted 
her  face,  the  eyes  closed,  the  teeth  pressed  on  her  under 
lip.  It  quivered  like  a  child's  on  the  brink  of  tears, 
but  she  wasn't  crying  —  fighting,  I'd  say,  against  some- 
thing deeper  than  tears.  I  couldn't  bear  to  look  at 
it  and  shut  my  own  eyes;  when  I  opened  them  she  was 
gone. 

You  didn't  need  to  tell  me  any  more  after  that. 
She  was  in  love  with  Ferguson,  not  Price;  she  was  in 
love  and  straining  every  nerve  to  hide  it ;  she  was  in 
love  so  she  was  jealous  of  Mrs.  Price  —  and  I'd  bet  a 
hat  she  was  the  kind  who  could  love  fierce  and  hard. 

I  had  to  get  this  into  the  office  and  the  next  day  asked 
for  time  off  from  Mrs.  Janney  and  went  in.  I  found 
them  different  to  what  they  had  been  on  my  first  visit, 
taking  it  serious  like  they  were  warming  to  it.  I'd 

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Molly's  Story 


hardly  sat  down  before  I  heard  the  reason.  O'Malley 
had  been  busy  and  turned  up  enough  evidence  to  make 
them  sure  that  Chapman  Price  and  Miss  Maitland  were 
in  deep  in  some  sort  of  plot  or  conspiracy. 

O'Malley's  investigation  of  Price's  movements  on  the 
night  of  July  the  seventh  had  revealed  these  facts: 
Price  had  taken  his  car  from  Sommers'  garage  at 
Cedar  Brook  at  eight-thirty,  not  returning  till  five  min- 
utes before  two.  To  one  of  the  garage  men  he  had  said 
that  the  night  being  so  fine  he  had  gone  for  a  long  run 
over  the  island.  No  trace  of  his  whereabouts  during 
these  hours  had  been  found  until  O'Malley  dropped  on 
a  policeman  at  the  end  of  the  Queensborough  Bridge. 
This  man  said  Price  had  crossed  over  to  the  city  be- 
tween nine-thirty  and  ten.  He  was  positive  of  his 
identification,  as  early  in  June  he  had  stopped  the  young 
man  for  exceeding  the  speed  limit  on  the  bridge,  taken 
his  name  and  address  and  had  a  heated  altercation  with 
him.  From  that  time  to  his  return  to  Cedar  Brook 
Price  had  dropped  out  of  sight.  He  had  not  been  in 
the  lodgings  he  kept  in  town  or  in  any  of  the  garages 
he  patronized.  Whatever  his  business  had  been  in  the 
city  he  had  had  plenty  of  time  to  return  to  Grasslands 
and  participate  in  the  theft  of  the  jewels. 

A  continued  watch  of  the  house  at  76  Gayle  Street 
had  shown  that  both  Miss  Maitland  and  Price  had  been 
there  on  the  Thursday  previous  and  Price  on  Sunday 

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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

afternoon.  Each  had  entered  with  noiseless  haste  and 
each  had  used  a  latchkey.  O'Malley  in  a  search  for  a 
room  had  interviewed  the  janitor,  a  grouchy  old  chap 
living  in  the  basement ;  and  got  a  line  on  all  the  tenants, 
none  of  whom  answered  to  the  description  of  Price 
or  Miss  Maitland.  Of  their  visits  to  the  house  the 
man  was  evidently  ignorant,  but  he  supplied  some  in- 
formation which  showed  how  they  could  come  and  go 
without  his  cognizance. 

On  July  the  eighth  a  lady,  giving  no  name,  had  taken 
the  right  hand  front  room  on  the  top  floor  for  a  friend, 
Miss  Agnes  Brown,  an  art  student  coming  from  the 
west  but  not  yet  arrived  in  the  city.  The  lady  paid  a 
month's  rent  in  advance,  took  the  key,  and  said  when 
Miss  Brown  arrived,  the  janitor  would  be  informed, 
but  that  she  might  be  delayed  through  illness  in  her 
family.  This  lady,  as  described  by  the  janitor,  was  be- 
yond a  doubt  Esther  Maitland. 

O'Malley  was  positive  that  the  man  honestly  be- 
lieved the  room  unused  and  awaiting  its  occupant.  He 
had  seen  no  signs  of  habitation,  heard  no  sound  from 
behind  its  closed  door.  Cooking  was  permitted  in  the 
house  and  it  was  part  of  his  business  to  sweep  down 
the  halls  every  morning  and  empty  the  pails  containing 
the  food  refuse  which  were  placed  outside  the  doors. 
He  had  seen  no  pail,  no  milk  bottles,  and  never  at 
night,  when  he  went  up  to  light  the  hall  gas,  had  there 

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Molly's  Story 


been  a  gleam  from  the  transom  of  Miss  Brown's  apart- 
ment. 

The  room  had  been  engaged  by  Esther  Maitland  the 
day  after  the  robbery,  had  been  secured  for  a  tenant 
who  had  not  materialized.  She  had  taken  the  key  her- 
self and  had  visited  the  place,  as  Chapman  Price  had 
done.  Both  had  made  their  exits  and  entrances  so 
carefully  that  the  janitor  had  no  idea  any  one  had 
ever  been  inside  the  door  since  the  day  it  was  rented. 

After  I'd  heard  all  this  I  opened  up  with  what  I'd 
collected.  The  Chief  didn't  say  much,  which  is  his 
way  when  you  come  in  with  a  new  "  twist,"  but  Mr. 
George  wouldn't  have  it,  got  quite  peevish  and  said  my 
imagination  had  run  away  with  me. 

"  Do  you  think  a  girl  in  love  with  another  man  would 
have  embroiled  herself  with  Price  the  way  she  has  ?  " 
he  snapped  out. 

"  I  don't  know,  Mr.  George.  I'm  not  ready  to  say 
yet  what  she's  done  or  hasn't  done.  No  one  can  deny 
that  things  are  dead  against  her.  All  I'm  sure  of  now 
is  that  she  is  in  love  with  Mr.  Ferguson  and,  that  be- 
ing the  case,  I  don't  think  she's  the  kind,  guilty  or  in- 
nocent, who'd  take  up  with  another  man." 

"  But  you  can't  base  a  conviction  on  a  moment's 
pantomime  such  as  you  overlooked.  The  girl  was  prob- 
ably angry  at  Mrs.  Price's  manner.  It  can  be  a  deuced 
disagreeable  manner ;  I've  seen  it." 

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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

"  She  didn't  act  like  that  —  it  wasn't  only  anger  — 
it  was  all  sorts  of  feelings." 

He  couldn't  see  it  any  way  but  his  own  and  ham- 
mered at  me. 

"  But  the  whole  structure's  built  on  the  assumption 
of  an  affair  between  her  and  Price.  Do  you  think 
she'd  steal  for  him,  lie  for  him,  hire  a  room  to  meet  him 
in,  unless  she  was  so  crazy  about  him  she  was  clay  in 
his  hands  ?  " 

"  Mr.  George,"  I  said,  dropping  back  in  my  chair 
sort  of  helpless  but  still  as  obstinate  as  a  government 
mule,  "  every  word  you  say  sounds  like  sense  and  I'm 
not  saying  it  isn't.  But  while  I'm  not  passing  any 
criticisms  on  you,  in  this  kind  of  question,  I'd  back 
my  own  judgment  against  any  man's  that  ever  lived 
since  Adam  tried  to  throw  the  blame  on  Eve." 

The  Chief  laughed  like  he  was  amused  at  the  scrap- 
ping of  two  kids. 

"  That's  right,  Molly,"  he  says,  "  don't  let  him  brow- 
beat you,  stick  to  your  own  opinion." 

"Well,  what  do  you  think?"  Mr.  George  turned 
to  him  all  red  and  ruffled  up.  "  Isn't  she  building  up 
theories  on  the  flimsiest  kind  of  foundation?  " 

The  Chief  wouldn't  give  him  any  satisfaction. 

"  I'll  take  a  leaf  out  of  her  book,"  he  said,  "  not 
pass  any  criticisms.  And  I  think  we're  going  on  too 
fast.  I  expect  to  have  Chapman  here  himself  in  a  day 

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Molly's  Story 


or  two  and  ask  some  questions  about  that  long  ride  on 
the  night  of  July  the  seventh.  After  that  we'll  be  on  a 
firmer  footing  —  or  we  ought  to  be.  Meantime,  Molly, 
you  go  back  to  Grasslands.  Keep  your  eyes  open  and 
your  mouth  shut  and  if  anything  turns  up  let  me 
know." 


153 


CHAPTER  XIV 

A  CHAPTER  ABOUT  BAD  TEMPERS 

THINGS  were  not  going  Mr.  Larkin's  way. 
What  had  begun  with  such  bright  promise  was 
declining  to  a  twilight  uncertainty.  The 
morning  after  his  ignominious  failure  with  Willitts  he 
had  a  letter  from  Suzanne,  forwarded  from  his  New 
York  office,  telling  him  that  she  would  be  in  town  on 
the  following  Monday  and  would  like  to  see  him.  The 
letter  disturbed  him  greatly.  It  was  not  alone  that  he 
had  nothing  to  report ;  it  was  that  the  tone  of  the  mis- 
sive was  irritated  and  impatient.  It  was  the  angrily 
imperious  summons  of  a  lady  who  is  disappointed  in 
her  hireling. 

He  packed  up  his  things  and  left  Cedar  Brook  —  the 
collapse  of  his  endeavor  there  was  complete  —  and  at 
the  hour  appointed  found  Suzanne  waiting  in  the  shaded 
reception  room.  Her  words  and  manner  showed  him 
how  disagreeable  a  fine  lady  can  be ;  they  gave  him  a 
cold  premonition  that  his  fat  salary  would  end  unless 
something  distinct  and  definite  was  soon  forthcoming. 
In  fact  she  hinted  it;  his  assurances  that  interesting 


A  Chapter  About  Bad  Tempers 

developments  were  pending,  that  this  sort  of  work  was 
necessarily  slow,  kindled  no  responsive  enthusiasm  in 
the  crossly  accusing  eye  she  fastened  on  him.  His  man- 
ner became  almost  pleading;  he  was  on  the  edge  of 
discoveries,  unquestionably  he  would  have  something 
to  tell  her  by  the  end  of  the  week.  At  that  she  hung 
dubious,  the  angry  eye  less  disconcerting,  and  said  she 
would  be  in  town  on  Friday  as  she  was  going  to  take 
her  little  girl  to  the  oculist. 

Mr.  Larkin  hailed  the  announcement  with  a  sleuth- 
like  eagerness,  but,  as  if  anxious  to  quench  any  little 
flicker  of  his  spirit,  she  added  blightingly  that  she  didn't 
think  it  would  be  possible  to  see  him  as  the  child  would 
be  with  her.  He  grappled  with  the  difficulty,  display- 
ing both  patience  and  resourcefulness,  for  Mrs.  Price, 
in  a  bad  temper,  had  a  talent  for  creating  obstacles. 

Why,  he  suggested,  couldn't  the  little  girl  go  to  the 
oculist  with  her  nurse  or  companion  and  Mrs.  Price  be 
left,  so  to  speak,  free  to  roam?  Mrs.  Price's  answer 
snapped  with  an  angry  click  —  that  was  of  course  what 
she  would  do  —  she  always  did.  But ,  Mr.  Larkin  did 
not  suppose  she  took  the  exhausting  trip  from  Berkeley 
for  nothing,  did  he?  She  had  matters  to  attend  to 
herself,  shops  to  go  to,  people  to  see;  when  they  came 
into  town  they  were  swamped,  simply  swamped,  by  what 
they  had  to  do.  She  depicted  with  a  lively  irritation 
their  harried  progress,  the  party  split  into  halves, 

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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

one  in  a  hired  vehicle,  one  in  the  family  motor,  passing 
through  the  marts  of  trade  in  a  stampede  of  breatliless 
shopping.  She  rubbed  it  in,  seemed  to  be  intimating 
that  he  was  attempting  to  frustrate  an  overtaxed  and 
weary  woman  in  the  accomplishment  of  gigantic  tasks. 

Mr.  Larkin  met  the  difficulties  and  kept  his  patience. 
It  took  a  good  deal  to  finally  reach  a  settlement  which 
was  obvious  from  the  start.  The  child  and  her  compan- 
ion could  go  on  their  errands  and  Suzanne  could  go  on 
hers,  but  be  back  before  them.  He  could  meet  her  at 
the  house  at  any  hour  she  named  and  would  leave  be- 
fore the  return  of  the  other  half  of  the  party.  He 
forced  her  to  an  admission  that  the  plan  was  feasible, 
though  she  gave  it  grudgingly,  her  manner  still  sug- 
gesting that  if  he  had  conducted  himself  as  a  detective 
worthy  of  his  hire  she  would  not  have  been  put  to  so 
much  trouble.  She  arranged  to  be  at  the  house  at 
twelve  which  she  calculated  might  give  her  half  an  hour 
alone  with  him.  Should  there  be  any  change  of  plans 
she  would  let  him  know,  and  she  hoped,  with  an  accen- 
tuated glance,  he  would  have  something  satisfactory 
to  tell  her. 

His  good  temper  unshaken,  Mr.  Larkin  assured  her 
he  would  and  rose  to  go.  On  the  doorstep  he  mopped 
his  forehead  though  the  day  was  not  warm,  also  he  swore 
softly  as  he  descended  the  steps. 

A  day  or  two  after  this,  Chapman  Price  went  to  the 
156 


Whitney  office.  He  had  received  a  communication  from 
them  asking  for  an  interview,  the  ostensible  subject  of 
debate  being  Suzanne's  divorce.  The  suit  would  be 
conducted  at  Reno  where  Mrs.  Price  would  go  in  the 
autumn,  but  the  Whitney s,  as  the  Janney  lawyers, 
wanted  to  talk  the  matter  over  with  Mr.  Price  for  the 
arranging  of  various  financial  details. 

These  were  quickly  opened  up  for  his  attention  by 
Wilbur  Whitney,  who,  with  George,  saw  the  young  man 
in  his  private  office.  The  ground  of  divorce  —  non- 
support  —  was  touched  on  with  a  tactful  lightness. 
Mrs.  Price  would  of  course  ask  for  no  alimony  and  so 
forth  and  so  on.  From  that  the  elder  Whitney  passed 
to  the  subject  of  the  child;  it  was  the  desire  of  its 
mother  and  grandparents  that  Chapman  should  re- 
linquish all  claim  on  it.  The  young  man  listened, 
gloomy  and  scowling,  now  and  then  muttering  in  angry 
repudiation.  But  the  diplomatic  arguments  of  the 
lawyer  bore  down  his  opposition;  he  had  to  give  in. 
The  child  ought  to  remain  with  its  mother,  the  natural 
guardian  of  its  tender  years ;  left  entirely  to  the  Jan- 
neys  it  would  be  the  eventual  heiress  of  their  great 
wealth,  but  if  Chapman  antagonized  them  by  a  fight  for 
its  possession  its  prospects  might  suffer.  It  was  a 
persuasive  appeal,  made  to  Chapman's  parental  affec- 
tions, the  welfare  of  his  daughter  before  his  own.  It 
brought  him  to  a  sullen  consent,  and  Wilbur  Whitney, 

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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

with  a  sound  of  approval,  pushed  back  his  chair,  elated 
as  by  a  good  work  done. 

Price  rose,  his  face  flushed  and  frowning.  That  he 
was  resentful  was  plain  to  be  seen,  but  he  had  himself 
in  hand,  inquiring  with  a  sardonic  politeness  if  that  was 
all  they  wanted  of  him.  The  elder  Whitney  with  a  hos- 
pitable gesture  toward  the  empty  chair,  said  no,  there 
were  some  questions  he'd  like  to  ask,  nothing  of  any 
especial  moment  and  on  an  entirely  different  matter. 

"  Mrs.  Janney,"  he  explained,  "  has  suggested  that 
we  make  a  separate,  private  investigation  of  the  rob- 
bery. She's  lost  faith  in  Kissam,  who  hasn't  done  any- 
thing but  draw  his  pay  envelope  and  wants  us  to  see 
what  we  can  do.  So  we've  been  clearing  up  a  lot  of 
dead  wood,  looking  into  the  movements  of  the  people 
in  the  house  and  the  neighborhood  that  night." 

Price,  who  had  remained  standing,  turned  his  eyes 
on  the  speaker  in  a  gaze  that  had  a  quality  of  sudden 
fixed  attention. 

"  Oh,"  he  said,  in  a  tone  containing  a  note  of  hostile 
comprehension,  "  so  you're  in  it,  are  you?  " 

'  Yes ;  we're  in  it  —  only  a  little  way  so  far.  We've 
been  rounding  up  every  one  that  has,  or  has  had,  any 
dealings  with  the  family  and  we've  taken  you  in  in  the 
sweep." 

"  Me?  "  Price's  voice  showed  an  intense  surprise. 
"  What  have  I  got  to  do  with  it?  " 

158 


"  Nothing,  my  dear  boy,  except  that  you  "were  a 
member  of  the  household,  and  as  I  said,  we're  clearing 
up  every  one  in  sight.  It's  only  a  formality,  a  tagging 
and  disposing  of  all  unnecessary  elements.  You  went 
for  a  motor  ride  that  night  —  a  long  ride.  You 
wouldn't  mind  telling  us  where,  would  you?  It's  just 
for  the  purpose  of  eliminating  you  along  with  the  rest 
of  the  dead  wood." 

The  young  man's  gaze  dropped  from  Whitney's  face 
to  his  own  hat  lying  on  the  table.  He  looked  at  it  with 
an  absent  stare. 

"  A  motor  ride?  "  he  murmured. 

"  Yes,  from  eight-thirty  till  nearly  two." 

"  Um,"  Price  appeared  to  be  considering.  "  Let  me 
see  —  what  was  the  date,  I  don't  remember?" 

George  assisted  his  memory : 

"  July  the  seventh  —  a  moonlight  night." 

"  Ah,"  he  had  it  now,  nodding  his  head  several  times 
in  restored  recollection.  "  Of  course,  I  remember  per- 
fectly. There  was  a  heavy  rain  early  in  the  evening  and 
then  a  full  moon."  He  turned  to  the  elder  man.  "  I'm 
rather  fond  of  ranging  about  at  night,  and  couldn't 
quite  place  what  especial  ride  you  referred  to.  I  took 
a  long  spin  up  the  Island." 

"  Up  ?  "  said  Whitney,  "  not  being  a  Long  Islander 
I  don't  know  your  directions.  Would  *  up '  mean 
toward  the  city  ?  " 

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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

"  No,  the  other  way,  out  along  the  Sound  roads  and 
on  toward  Peconic." 

"  Kept  to  the  country,  eh?  Too  fine  a  night  to  waste 
in  town." 

Price's  face  darkened.  George  watching  him  noticed 
a  slight  dilation  of  his  nostrils,  a  slight  squaring  of 
the  line  of  his  jaw.  His  answer  came  in  a  tone  hard 
and  combative: 

"  Exactly.  I  get  enough  of  town  in  the  day.  I 
rode,  as  I  told  you,  out  to  the  east,  a  long  way  —  I 
can't  give  you  the  exact  route  if  that's  what  you 
want."  He  suddenly  leaned  forward  and  snatched  his 
hat  from  the  table.  Holding  it  against  his  side  he 
made  an  ironical  bow  to  his  questioner  said,  "  Does  that 
eliminate  me  as  a  suspect?  " 

Whitney  laughed,  a  sound  of  lazy  good  humor  rich 
with  the  tolerance  of  a  vast  experience: 

"  My  dear  Chapman,  why  use  such  sensational  terms? 
Suspect  is  a  word  we  haven't  reached  yet.  Take  this 
as  it's  meant  —  a  form,  merely  a  form." 

"  The  form  might  have  included  a  questioning  of  me 
before  you  took  the  trouble  to  look  up  what  I  did. 
Evidently  my  word  wasn't  thought  sufficient." 

His  glance,  darkly  threatening,  moved  from  one  man 
to  the  other.  George  started  to  protest,  but  he  cut  in, 
his  words  directed  at  old  Whitney : 

"  It's  all  I  have  to  offer  you  now.  It's  what  I  say 
160 


against  what  you've  been  told  to  believe.  I  can  prove 
no  alibi,  for  I  was  with  no  one,  saw  no  one,  started  alone 
and  stayed  alone.  That's  all  you'll  get  out  of  me,  and 
you  can  take  it  or  leave  it  as  you  d n  please." 

He  turned  and  walked  toward  the  door,  the  elder 
Whitney's  conciliatory  phrases  delivered  to  his  back. 
The  door  knob  in  his  hand  he  wheeled  round,  the  anger 
he  had  been  struggling  to  subdue  fierce  in  his  face : 

"  Don't  think  for  a  moment  you've  fooled  me.  I  was 
ignorant  when  I  came  in  here,  but  I'm  on  to  the  whole 
dirty  business  now.  I  see  through  this  pussy-footing 
round  the  divorce.  It's  the  Janneys  —  the  blow  in  the 
back  I  might  have  known  was  coming.  They've  got 
my  child,  set  you  on  to  wheedle  her  out  of  me.  But 
that  wasn't  enough  —  they're  going  to  try  and  finish 
the  good  work  —  put  me  out  of  business  so  there's  no 
more  trouble  coming  from  me.  Brand  me  as  a  thief 
—  that's  their  game,  is  it  ?  Well  —  they've  gone  too 
far.  I've  held  my  hand  up  to  this  but  now  I'll  let  loose. 
They'll  see!  By  God,  they'll  see  that  I  can  hit  back 
blow  for  blow." 


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CHAPTER  XV 

WHAT    HAPPENED    ON    FRIDAY 

THE  Friday  morning  when  Suzanne  was  to  go  to 
town  broke  auspiciously  bright  and  cloudless. 
As  Annie  was  not  the  proper  person  to  take 
Bebita  to  the  oculist,  and  as  Suzanne  would  be  too  busy 
to  go  herself,  Miss  Maitland  had  been  impressed  into 
the  service.  It  had  been  decided  two  days  earlier,  and 
though  she  had  received  some  instructions  at  the  time, 
on  the  drive  in,  Mrs.  Price  went  over  her  plans  with  a 
meticulous  thoroughness.  They  would  go  first  to  the 
Fifth  Avenue  house,  pick  up  there  some  clothes  of 
Bebita's  needing  alteration,  and  then  separate.  Esther 
would  take  a  cab  from  the  rank  on  the  side  street,  and  go 
with  Bebita  to  the  oculist,  to  the  dressmaker  with  the 
clothes,  and  execute  several  minor  commissions  in  shops 
along  the  Avenue.  Bebita  begged  for  a  box  of  caramels 
from  Justin's,  the  French  confectioner,  a  request  which 
was  graciously  acceded  to  by  her  mother,  Miss  Mait- 
land jotting  it  down  on  her  list.  Mrs.  Price  would  take 
the  motor  and  go  about  her  own  affairs,  which  would 
occupy  probably  an  hour.  She  would  then  return  to 

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What  Happened  on  Friday 


the  house  and  wait  for  them  —  for  she  would  have  fin- 
ished before  they  did  —  and  afterward  they  would  go 
out  to  lunch  somewhere.  She  said  she  thought  it  would 
be  fully  an  hour  and  a  half  before  they  got  back  and 
Miss  Maitland,  eyeing  the  long  list,  said  it  might  be 
even  longer. 

Aggie  McGee  had  the  clothes  tied  up  in  a  box  and 
Suzanne  and  Bebita  stood  on  the  steps  waiting  while 
Miss  Maitland  went  for  the  cab.  The  rank  was  just 
round  the  corner  and  in  a  few  minutes  she  came  back 
with  a  taxi  running  along  the  curb  behind  her. 

"  Quite  a  piece  of  luck  to  find  one,"  she  said,  as  she 
took  the  box.  "  They're  not  always  there  in  the  dead 
season." 

Bebita  jumped  in,  settling  herself  with  joyful  pranc- 
ings  and  waving  a  little  white-gloved  hand.  Esther 
followed,  snapped  the  door  shut,  and  they  glided  away. 
Suzanne  watched  them  go,  then  stepped  into  the  big 
motor  and  was  swept  off  in  the  opposite  direction. 

She  came  back  before  the  hour  was  up.  She  had 
hurried  as  she  wanted  to  have  done  with  Larkin  before 
they  returned.  It  would  be  extremely  uncomfortable 
if  they  found  her  in  confab  with  the  detective ;  it  would 
necessitate  boring  explanations  and  the  inventing  of 
lies. 

She  sat  down  in  the  reception  room  close  to  the  win- 
dow, pulled  up  the  blind  and  waited.  Drawn  back  from 

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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

the  eyes  of  passers-by  she  could  command  the  sidewalk 
and  the  street  for  some  distance  and  if,  by  any  evil 
chance,  Larkin  should  be  late,  she  could  see  him  com- 
ing and  tell  Aggie  McGee  to  say  she  was  not  there. 

Up  to  now  Larkin  had  been  punctual  to  the  dot,  but 
on  this,  the  one  occasion  when  punctuality  was  vital, 
he  was  not  on  time.  Twelve  passed,  then  the  quarter, 
and  the  sun-swept  length  of  the  great  avenue  gave  up 
no  masculine  figure  that  bore  any  resemblance  to  him. 
She  was  growing  nervous,  wondering  what  she  had  bet- 
ter do,  when  he  hove  in  sight  walking  quickly  toward 
the  house.  A  glance  at  her  wrist  watch  told  her  it 
was  twenty  minutes  past  twelve  —  Miss  Maitland  and 
Bebita  might  not  be  back  for  another  half  hour  yet. 
She  would  chance  it,  for  she  was  extremely  anxious  to 
see  him,  and  anyway,  if  they  should  come  in  before  he 
left,  she  could  tell  him  to  go  into  the  drawing  room  and 
slip  out  after  they  had  gone.  Relieved  by  the  decision 
she  rose  and  was  turning  toward  the  mirror,  when  she 
caught  sight  of  a  taxi  scudding  up  the  street  with 
Esther  Maitland's  face  in  the  window. 

A  word  not  generally  used  by  ladies  escaped  Suzanne. 
There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  send  him  away.  She 
ran  into  the  hall  and  pressed  the  bell,  listening  in  a 
fever  for  Aggie  McGee's  step  on  the  kitchen  stairs. 
Simultaneously  with  its  first  heavy  thud  came  the  peal 
of  the  front  door  bell.  Suzanne,  who  had  noticed  that 

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What  Happened  on  Friday 


the  taxi  was  moving  fast  and  would  make  the  steps 
before  Larkin,  called  down  on  Aggie  McGee's  ascending 
head : 

"  That's  Miss  Maitland.  A  gentleman  I  expected 
is  just  behind  her.  I  can't  see  him  now,  I  haven't  time. 
Tell  him  I've  been  here  and  gone." 

She  went  back  into  the  reception  room  and  stood 
listening.  She  heard  the  door  opening,  Esther's  step 
in  the  hall ;  it  was  all  right,  the  detective  would  get  his 
conge  without  being  seen  by  any  one  but  Aggie  Mc- 
Gee.  She  drew  a  breath  of  relief  and  turned  smiling 
to  the  girl  in  the  doorway.  Miss  Maitland  did  not  give 
back  the  smile ;  she  sent  a  searching  look  over  the  room 
and  said  in  a  low,  breathless  voice  as  if  she  had  been 
running : 

"IsBebitahere?" 

There  was  a  moment  of  silence.  Through  it  the 
heavy  tread  of  Aggie  McGee  passing  along  the  hall 
sounded  unnaturally  loud.  As  it  went  clump,  clump, 
down  the  kitchen  stairs  Suzanne  was  aware  of  Miss 
Maitland's  face,  startlingly  strange,  ashen-colored.  At 
first  it  was  all  she  took  in. 

"  Bebita  —  here  ?  "  she  stammered.  "  How  could  she 
be?  She's  with  you." 

Miss  Maitland  made  a  step  into  the  room,  her  hands 
went  up  clenched  to  her  chest,  her  voice  came  again 
through  the  broken  gasps  of  a  runner : 

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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

"  No  —  she  isn't.  I  thought  I'd  find  her  with  you  — 
I  thought  she'd  come  back.  Oh,  Mrs.  Price — "  she 
stopped,  her  eyes,  telling  a  message  of  disaster,  fixed 
on  the  other. 

Suzanne's  answer  came  from  opened  lips,  dropped 
apart  in  a  sudden  horror : 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?     Why  should  she  be  here  ?  " 

"  Mrs.  Price,  something's  happened !  " 

Suzanne  screamed  out: 

"Where  is  she?" 

"  I  don't  know  —  but  —  but  —  I  haven't  got  her  — 
she's  gone.  Mrs.  Price  — " 

Suzanne  screamed  again,  putting  her  hands  against 
the  sides  of  her  head,  her  face,  between  them,  a  livid 
mask. 

"  Gone  —  gone  where  ?     Is  she  dead  ?  " 

The  girl  shook  her  head,  swallowing  on  a  throat 
dried  to  a  leathern  stiffness: 

"  No  —  no  —  nothing  like  that.  But  —  the  taxi  — 
it  went,  disappeared  while  I  was  in  Justin's.  I  was  in 
there  buying  the  candy  and  when  I  came  out  it  was  gone. 
I  looked  everywhere;  I  couldn't  believe  it;  I  thought 
she'd  come  back  here  —  run  away  from  me  for  a  joke." 

Suzanne,  holding  the  sides  of  her  head,  stared  like 
a  mad  woman,  then  gave  a  piercing  cry,  thin  and  high, 
a  wild,  dolorous  sound.  Only  the  solidity  of  the  house 
prevented  it  from  penetrating  to  the  lower  regions  where 

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What  Happened  on  Friday 


Aggie  McGee  and  her  aunt  were  comfortably  lunching. 
"  Listen,  Mrs.  Price."     Esther  took  her  hands  and 
drew  them  down.     "The  driver  may  have  made  a  mis- 
take, taken  her  somewhere  else  —  he  couldn't  — " 
Suzanne  shrieked  in  sudden  frenzy: 
"  She's  been  stolen  —  my  baby's  been  stolen !  " 
For  a  second  they  looked  at  one  another,  each  pallid 
face  confessing  its   conviction   of  the  grisly  thought. 
Esther  tried  to  speak,  the  sentences  dropping  discon- 
nected : 

"  If  it's  that  then  —  then  —  it's  some  one  who  knorrs 
you're  rich  —  some  one  —  they'll  want  money.  They'll 
give  her  up  for  money  —  Oh,  Mrs.  Price,  I  looked  — 
I  hunted  — " 

Suzanne's  voice  came  in  a  suddenly  strangled  whisper : 
"  It's  you  —  It's  your  fault !     You've  let  them  steal 
my  baby.     You've  done  it !     You'll  be  put  in  jail." 

With  the  words  issuing  from  her  mouth  she  staggered 
and  crumpled  into  a  limpness  of  fiberless  flesh  and  trail- 
ing garments.  Esther  put  an  arm  about  her  and  drew 
her  to  the  sofa.  Here  she  collapsed  amid  the  cushions, 
her  eyes  open,  moans  coming  from  her  shaking  lips. 
Esther  knelt  beside  her: 

"  Mrs.  Price,  it's  horrible,  but  try  to  keep  up,  don't 
break  down  this  way.  No  one  would  dare  to  do  any- 
thing to  her.  If  she's  been  stolen  it's  to  the  interest 
of  the  person  who  did  it  to  keep  her  safe.  We'll  find 

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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

her  in  a  day  or  two.  Your  mother,  her  position,  her 
power  —  she'll  do  something,  she'll  get  her  back." 

Suzanne  rolling  her  head  on  the  cushion,  groaned : 

"  Oh,  my  baby !  Oh,  Bebita !  "  Then  burst  into  wild 
tears  and  disjointed  sentences.  She  was  almost  unin- 
telligible, cries  to  heaven,  wails  for  her  child,  accusa- 
tions of  the  woman  at  her  feet  broke  from  her  in  a  tor- 
rent. Once  she  struck  at  the  girl  with  a  feeble  fist. 

There  was  no  help  to  be  got  from  her  and  Esther 
rose.  She  spoke  more  to  herself  than  the  anguished 
creature  on  the  sofa : 

"  We  can't  waste  time  this  way.  I'll  call  up  Grass- 
lands and  ask  what  to  do." 

The  telephone  was  in  the  hall  and,  as  she  waited  for 
the  connection,  she  could  hear  the  sounds  of  the  moth- 
er's misery  beating  on  the  house's  rich  silence.  Then 
Dixon's  voice  brought  her  faculties  into  quick  order. 
She  wanted  to  speak  to  Mrs.  Janney  herself,  at  once, 
it  was  important.  There  followed  what  seemed  an 
endless  wait,  and  then  Mrs.  Janney.  When  she  had 
mastered  it,  her  voice  came,  sharp  and  incisive: 

"  Hold  the  wire,  I  have  to  speak  to  Mr.  Janney." 

Another  wait,  through  which,  faint  as  the  shadows  of 
sound,  Esther  could  hear  the  tiny  echo  of  voices,  then 
the  jar  of  an  approaching  step  and  a  man  answered : 

"  Hello,  Miss  Maitland,  this  is  Ferguson.  I've  or- 
ders from  Mrs.  Janney  —  Go  straight  down  to  the 

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What  Happened  on  Friday 


Whitney  office,  tell  them  what's  happened  and  put  the 
thing  in  their  hands.  Say  nothing  to  anybody  else. 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Janney  are  starting  to  go  in.  They'll 
be  in  town  as  quickly  as  they  can  get  there  and  will 
meet  you  at  the  office.  Got  that  straight?  All  right. 
Good-by." 

She  cogitated  a  moment,  then  called  up  the  Whit- 
ney office  getting  George.  She  gave  him  a  brief  out- 
line of  what  had  occurred  and  told  him  she  would  be 
there  with  Mrs.  Price  within  a  half  hour. 

Back  in  the  reception  room  she  tried  to  arouse 
Suzanne,  but  the  distracted  woman  did  not  seem  to  have 
sense  left  to  take  in  anything.  At  the  sound  of  Esther's 
voice  her  sobs  and  wails  rose  hysterical,  and  the  girl, 
finding  it  impossible  to  make  her  understand,  set  about 
preparing  her  for  the  drive.  Any  word  of  hers  ap- 
peared to  make  Suzanne's  state  worse,  so  silently,  as 
if  she  were  dressing  a  manikin,  she  pinned  the  hat  to  the 
disordered  blonde  hair,  draped  a  motor  veil  over  it, 
composed  the  rumpled  skirts,  gathered  up  her  purse 
and  gloves,  and  finally,  an  arm  crooked  round  one  of 
Suzanne's,  got  her  out  to  the  motor. 

On  the  long  drive  downtown  almost  nothing  was 
said.  The  roar  of  the  surrounding  traffic  drowned  the 
sounds  of  weeping  that  now  and  then  rose  from  the 
veiled  figure,  which  Esther  held  firm  and  upright  by  the 
pressure  of  her  shoulder. 

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CHAPTER  XVI 

MOLLY'S  STORY 

THAT  Friday  —  gee,  shall  I  ever  forget  it !  — - 
opening   so   quiet   and   natural   and   suddenly 
bang,  in  the  middle  of  it,  the  sort  of  thing  you 
read  in  the  yellow  press. 

It  was  a  holiday  for  me  and  I  was  sitting  in  the  upper 
hall  alcove  making  a  blouse  and  handy  to  the  exten- 
sion 'phone.  Now  and  then  it  would  ring  and  I'd  pull 
it  over  with  a  weary  sigh  and  hear  a  female  voice  full  of 
cultivation  and  airs  ask  if  Mrs.  Janney'd  take  a  hand 
at  bridge,  or  a  male  one  want  to  know  what  Mr.  Jan- 
ney  thought  about  eighteen  holes  at  golf. 

It  was  on  for  one  when  it  rang  again  and  with  a 
smothered  groan  —  for  I  was  putting  on  the  collar 
—  I  jerked  it  over.  Believe  me,  I  forgot  that  blouse! 
Stiff,  like  I  was  turned  to  stone,  I  sat  there  listening, 
hearing  them  come,  one  after  another,  getting  every 
word  of  it.  When  they  were  through  I  got  up,  feeling 
sort  of  gone  in  the  middle,  and  lit  out  for  the  stairs. 
I  couldn't  have  kept  away  —  Bebita  disappeared ! 
"  Kidnapped ! "  I  said  to  myself  as  I  ran  along  the 

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Molly's  Story 


hall.  "  Kidnapped !  that's  what  it  is  —  it's  only  poor 
children  that  get  lost." 

On  the  stairs  I  met  Mrs.  Janney  coming  up  on  the 
run.  It  wasn't  the  speed  that  made  her  breath  short ; 
but  she  was  on  the  job,  the  grand  old  Roman,  with 
her  mouth  as  straight  as  the  slit  in  a  post  box  and 
her  face  as  hard  as  if  it  was  cut  out  of  granite. 

"  Go  down  there,"  she  said,  giving  a  jerk  of  her 
head  toward  the  hall  below.  "  Sit  there  and  wait. 
Something's  happened  and  you  may  be  useful." 

I  went  on  down  and  took  a  seat.  Outside  on  the 
balcony  I  could  see  Mr.  Janney,  wandering  about  with 
a  hunted  look.  From  the  telephone  closet  came  Fergu- 
son's voice  telling  his  chauffeur  to  bring  his  car  to 
Grasslands,  now,  this  minute,  and  enough  gasoline  for 
a  long  run.  Then  he  came  out,  hooked  an  armful  of 
coats  off  the  hall  rack,  and  ran  past  me  on  to  the 
balcony.  He  gave  the  coats  to  Mr.  Janney,  who  stood 
holding  them,  looking  after  Ferguson  wherever  he  went 
and  quavering  questions  at  him.  I  don't  think  Fergu- 
son answered  them,  but  he  pulled  one  of  the  coats  out 
of  the  old  man's  arms  and  put  him  into  it,  quick  and 
efficient.  When  the  motor  came  up  he  tried  to  make 
Mr.  Janney  get  in,  but  he  wouldn't,  standing  there, 
helpless  and  pitiful,  and  calling  out  for  Mrs.  Janney. 

"  I'm  here,  Sam,"  came  her  voice  from  the  stairs  and 
she  scudded  by  where  I  was  sitting,  tying  her  motor 

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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

veil  over  her  hat.  She  seemed  to  have  forgotten  me 
and  I  followed  her  out  on  to  the  balcony,  not  knowing 
what  she  wanted  me  to  do.  As  I  stood  there  Fergu- 
son's big  car  came  shooting  up  the  drive. 

She  climbed  quickly  into  her  own  motor,  waiting  at 
the  bottom  of  the  steps,  Mr.  Janney  scrambled  in  after 
her  and  Ferguson  threw  a  rug  over  them.  They  were 
just  starting  when  she  looked  up  and  saw  me. 

"  Oh,"  she  cried,  leaning  across  the  old  man,  "  we'll 
want  you  —  you  must  come." 

Mr.  Janney  stared  bewildered  at  her  and  said: 

"  Why  —  why  should  she  come?  " 

"  Keep  quiet,  Sam,"  then  over  her  shoulder  to  Fergu- 
son as  the  car  began  to  move,  "  Bring  Mrs.  Babbitts, 
Dick.  Take  her  with  you." 

The  car  glided  off,  Mr.  Janney's  voice  floating  back : 

"  But  why,  why  —  why  do  you  want  her?  " 

Ferguson's  motor  swung  round  the  oval  and  came 
to  a  halt.  The  chauffeur  jumped  out,  and,  told  he 
wasn't  wanted,  disappeared.  The  young  man  turned 
to  me,  not  a  smile  out  of  him  now. 

"  Come  on,  get  in,"  he  said  and  then  giving  a  nod 
at  one  of  the  coats  lying  over  a  chair,  "  and  bring  that 
with  you  —  it  may  blow  up  cold  and  it's  a  long  run." 

I  did  as  I  was  told  —  there  was  something  about  him 
that  made  you  do  what  he  said  —  and  jumped  in.  He 
came  on  my  heels,  snapped  the  door  and  we  started. 

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Before  we  got  to  the  gates  he  speeded  the  machine  up 
and  in  a  few  minutes  we  were  close  on  the  Janney 
motor  which  was  flying  along  the  woody  road  at  a  pace 
that  would  have  strained  the  heart  of  a  bicycle  cop. 
Their  dust  came  over  us  in  a  cloud,  and  Mr.  Ferguson 
slowed  down,  and,  his  hand  resting  easy  on  the  wheel, 
said: 

"  What  does  Mrs.  Janney  want  you  for?  " 

I'd  hoped  he  hadn't  noticed  that,  but  in  case  he  had 
I'd  an  answer  ready. 

"  Maybe  she  thought  I  might  have  noticed  if  any  one 
was  hanging  round  lately  —  hanging  round  to  size  up 
the  habits  of  the  family  and  Bebita's  movements." 

"  Oh,"  he  said,  looking  at  me  very  pointed,  "  then 
you  know  what's  happened  to  Bebita." 

I  hadn't  any  answer  ready  for  that.  I  had  to  get 
hold  of  something  quick  and  as  you  will  do  when  you're 
taken  off  your  guard,  I  got  hold  of  a  lie : 

"  I  met  Mrs.  Janney  on  the  stairs  and  she  told  me." 

"  That's  funny,"  he  says,  sort  of  thoughtful.  "  Be- 
fore she  went  she  told  both  Mr.  Janney  and  myself  that 
no  one  in  the  house  must  hear  a  word  of  it." 

I  began  to  get  red,  and  for  a  moment,  stared  at 
my  feet  pressed  side  by  side  on  the  wood  in  front  of  me. 
It  didn't  make  it  any  pleasanter  to  know  that  Ferguson 
was  looking  at  me,  intent  and  narrow,  out  of  the  tail 
of  his  eye. 

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Miss  Mattland  Private  Secretary 

"I  guess  she  was  so  excited  she  forgot  and  just 
blabbed  it  out." 

It  was  the  best  I  could  do,  but  it  was  poor  stuff. 
If  you  knew  Mrs.  Janney  you'd  see  why. 

"  Um,"  said  Ferguson,  and  took  a  look  ahead  at 
the  cloud  of  dust  that  hid  the  other  car.  Then  he 
comes  out  with  another: 

"  I  wonder  if  that  was  the  reason  she  called  you 
Mrs.  Babbitts?" 

I  took  a  good  breath  from  the  bottom  of  my  lungs 
and  said: 

"  I  shouldn't  be  surprised.  Having  your  grand- 
child lost  is  enough  to  mix  up  any  woman." 

He  didn't  answer  and  we  ran  on  some  way,  out  of 
the  woods  on  to  a  long  straight  stretch  of  road.  The 
motor  in  front  was  going  at  a  tremendous  clip,  Mrs. 
Janney's  veil  lashing  out  like  a  wild  hand  beckoning 
us  on. 

"  Look  here,"  says  Ferguson,  soft  and  gentle  right 
into  my  ear,  "  what  are  you,  anyway  ?  " 

"Me?"  I  bounced  round  and  gave  him  a  baby 
stare.  "  I'm  a  governess.  What  do  you  think  I  am?  " 

"  You  may  be  a  good  governess  but  you're  a  poor 
liar.  I  was  in  the  telephone  closet  and  heard  what 
Mrs.  Janney  said  to  you  on  the  stairs.  And  I  don't 
think  you're  a  governess  at  all  —  you're  a  detective." 

I  thought  a  minute  but  what  was  the  use,  he  had  me. 
174 


Molly's  Story 


So  I   raised  up  my   chin  and  met  him,  eye   for   eye: 

"  All  right,  I  am.     What  of  it?  " 

"  Oh,  lots  of  it.  I've  had  my  suspicions  for  some 
time.  You  tapped  that  'phone  message  from  New 
York?  " 

"  I  did  —  it's  my  job.     I  have  to  do  it." 

"  Don't  apologize  —  it  wastes  time  and  we  haven't 
any  to  lose.  Now  just  tell  me  Miss  Rogers,  or  Mrs. 
Babbitts,  what  have  you  found  out  about  the  robbery ; 
where  were  you  getting  to  before  this  hideous  mess  to- 
day?" 

"  Well,  you've  got  your  nerve  with  you !  "  I  snorted. 

"  I  have,  right  here  handy.  I'm  a  friend  of  the 
Janneys,  I'm  a  — "  he  stopped.  His  nerve  was  handy 
all  right  but  he  hadn't  enough  to  tell  me  it  was  be- 
cause of  Esther  Maitland  he  was  so  keen. 

"  Go  on,"  I  said  sarcastic.  "  I'm  interested  to  hear 
what  you  are  now  you've  found  out  what  I  am." 

"  I'm  almost  a  member  of  the  household.  I  can  help. 
I  want  to  help  —  and  I  want  to  know." 

"  Maybe  you  do,"  I  said.  "  We  often  want  things 
in  this  world  that  we  can't  get.  Don't  think  you  have 
the  monopoly  of  that  complaint." 

The  motor  rose  over  the  crest  of  a  hill,  flashed  by  a 
farm  and  slid  down  an  incline.  Before  us  stretched  a 
white  line  of  road,  with  the  forward  car  racing  along  it 
in  a  blur  of  dust. 

175 


Miss  Mcdtland  Private  Secretary 

"You  mean  you  won't  tell  me?  " 

"  You  got  me." 

We  suddenly  began  to  slow  up,  the  car  swung  off 
sideways  from  the  roadbed,  ran  toward  the  bushes  on 
the  right,  and  came  to  a  halt.  Ferguson  dropped 
against  the  back  of  the  seat,  stretched  his  legs  and 
said: 

"  This  is  a  nice  shady  place  to  stop  in." 

"  Stop !  "  I  cried.  "  Forget  it !  What  do  you  want 
to  stop  for?  " 

"  I  don't  —  it's  you.  I'm  going  to  rest  here  quietly 
while  you  tell  me." 

*'  Young  man,"  I  said,  fixing  him  with  a  cold  eye, 
"  this  is  no  time  to  be  funny." 

"  I  entirely  agree  with  you.  Therefore  as  we're 
of  the  same  mind  it  behooves  you  to  get  busy  and  give 
me  the  information  I  want." 

The  coolness  of  him  would  have  riled  a  hen.  It  did 
me;  I  gave  a  stamp  on  the  footboard  and  angrily 
said: 

"  Start  up  this  machine.  I  was  ordered  to  go  to 
New  York  and  I've  got  to  get  there." 

"  You  will  as  soon  as  you  tell  me.  But  I  won't  move 
until  you  do.  We'll  stay  here  all  day,  all  night  if 
necessary.  There's  just  one  thing  certain:  we'll  stay 
till  I  hear  what  I  want  to  know." 

I  was  beaten  and  it  made  me  mad  straight  through. 
176 


Molly's  Story 


I  was  helpless  too  and  that  made  me  madder.  If  I'd 
had  the  least  notion  of  how  you  started  the  dinged  ma- 
chine I  was  angry  enough  to  have  tried  to  do  it, 
though  it  wouldn't  have  been  any  use  with  Ferguson 
there  to  frustrate  me. 

"  You're  losing  time,"  said  he.  "  There'll  be  trouble 
if  you  don't  show  up." 

"  Do  you  think  it's  a  high  class  thing,"  I  snapped 
out,  "  to  put  a  girl  in  a  position  like  this?  " 

"  Don't  you  think  you  can  trust  me?  "  he  answered 
very  quiet. 

I  looked  at  him,  a  long,  slow  survey,  and  as  I  did 
it  my  anger  simmered  down.  It's  part  of  my  business 
to  read  faces  and  what  I  saw  in  his  made  me  say  sort 
of  reluctant: 

"Well,  maybe  I  can." 

He  leaned  forward  and  put  his  hand  on  mine. 

"  Miss  Rogers,  if  you'll  stand  in  with  me,  trust  me 
and  let  me  help,  you  won't  make  any  mistake.  For 
I'll  stand  in  with  you,  not  now,  not  just  for  this  thing, 
but  for  always.  You've  my  word  on  it  and  I  don't 
break  my  word." 

That  ended  it  —  not  what  he  said  but  the  look  of 
him  while  he  said  it.  Almost  without  knowing  it  my 
hand  turned  under  his  and  they  clasped.  Solemn  as  a 
pair  of  images  we  shook.  Any  one  passing  would  have 
thought  we  were  crazy,  backed  into  the  brushwood,  side 

177 


Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

by  side  on  the  front  seat,  shaking  hands  as  if  we'd  just 
been  introduced. 

I  told  him  the  whole  story  and  he  never  said  a  word. 
When  I  came  to  Miss  Maitland's  part  in  it,  I  couldn't 
but  look  at  him.  He  drew  his  eyebrows  down  in  a 
frown  and  fiddled  with  his  fingers  on  the  wheel.  Even 
when  I  told  him  what  they  thought  about  her  and 
Chapman  Price  he  didn't  made  a  sound,  but  he  straight- 
ened up,  and  drew  a  deep  breath  like  he  wanted  more 
air  in  his  lungs.  I  got  it  some  way  then  —  I  can't 
exactly  say  how  —  that  he  was  a  good  deal  more  of  a 
person  than  I'd  guessed  —  a  lot  more  iron  in  his 
make-up  than  I'd  thought  when  I  liked  his  laugh  and 
his  boyish,  jolly  ways. 

When  I  finished  he  said,  easy  and  cool : 

"  Thank  you  —  that  gives  me  just  what  I  wanted. 
You  won't  regret  having  told  me.  As  for  Whitney  & 
Whitney,  they  won't  say  anything.  They're  my  law- 
yers —  known  'em  all  my  life.  I'll  take  care  of  that." 

He  took  hold  of  the  wheel  and  the  car  backed  out 
into  the  road. 

"  Can  we  ever  catch  them  up?  "  I  asked. 

"  I  guess  so  —  this  car  can  make  seventy-five  miles 
an  hour.  Are  you  game  for  a  race  ?  " 

"  I'm  game  for  anything  that'll  land  me  where  I 
belong." 

"  All  right  —  hold  on  to  your  hat." 
178 


Molly's  Story 


I  guess  the  Lord  protects  those  who  are  bent  on  His 
own  business.  Anyway  I  don't  know  why  else  we  weren't 
killed.  We  ate  up  that  road  like  a  dago  eating 
macaroni;  it  ran  under  the  car  like  a  white  ribbon 
fastened  to  a  spindle  somewhere  behind  us.  The  woods 
were  two  green  streaks  on  either  side,  and  now  and  then 
a  chuck  hole  would  send  me  bouncing,  landing  anywhere 
—  on  the  floor  once. 

"  Hold  on  to  something,"  he  shouted  at  me.  "  I 
don't  want  to  lose  you." 

And  I  shouted  back: 

"  You  couldn't.  I'm  wished  on  to  this  motor  till 
death  do  us  part  or  it  lands  me  somewhere  alive." 

Through  the  villages  we  had  to  slow  up.  Gliding 
dignified  along  the  tree-shaded  streets  put  me  into  a 
fever  and  I  guess  it  wore  on  him  for  more  than  once  I 
heard  him  muttering  to  himself,  and  believe  me,  he 
wasn't  saying  his  prayers.  I  glimpsed  sideways  at 
him,  and  saw  his  tanned  face,  with  the  hair  loose  and 
tousled  by  the  wind,  looking  changed,  hardened  and 
older,  all  the  gay  expression  gone.  The  news  he'd 
forced  out  of  me  had  hit  him  a  body  blow,  struck  him 
in  the  heart.  And  I  was  sorry,  awfully  sorry.  You 
can  hurt  a  mean  person  or  a  criminal  and  not  care, 
but  it's  no  lady's  job  to  have  to  wound  a  decent  man. 
That's  why  I'd  never  make  a  good  professional  —  the 

179 


Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

people  get  as  big  as  the  case  to  me,  and  if  you're  the 
real  thing  it's  only  the  case  that  counts. 

We  were  almost  in  Long  Island  City  when  we  caught 
up  with  the  Janneys,  Mrs.  Janney's  veil  still  waving 
like  a  hand  beckoning  us  to  hurry. 


180 


MISS    MAITLAND    IN    A    NEW    LIGHT 

AT  the  entrance  of  the  great  building  which 
housed  the  Whitney  office  the  two  motors  came 
to  a  halt.     Ferguson  went  in  with  the  others 
saying  he  would  see  if  he  could  be  of  any  use,  and  if  he 
was  not  wanted  would  return  to  the  street  level  and 
wait.     In  the  elevator  Mr.  Janney,  who  had  been  in- 
formed   en    route    of    Molly's    real    status,    eyed    her 
morosely,  but  when  the  car  stopped  forgot  everything 
but  the  urgencies  of  the  moment,  and  crowded  out, 
tremulous  and  stumbling,  on  his  wife's  heels. 

They  were  met  by  Wilbur  Whitney  who  in  a  large 
efficient  way,  distributed  them :  —  Ferguson  was  sent 
back  to  the  street  to  wait,  Molly  waved  to  a  chair 
in  the  hall,  and  the  old  people  conducted  up  the  passage 
to  his  private  office.  In  a  room  opening  from  it 
Suzanne  lay  stretched  on  a  sofa,  restoratives  and 
stimulants  at  hand,  and  a  girl  stenographer  to  fan  her. 
She  had  revolted  against  the  presence  of  Esther,  who 
had  been  removed  from  her  sight  and  shut  in  the  sanc- 
tum of  a  junior  partner. 

181 


Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

Mrs.  Janney  went  in  to  see  her  and  the  old  man  fell 
upon  Whitney.  It  was  Price's  doing  —  they  were  cer- 
tain of  it,  his  wife  had  said  so  at  once.  He  was  bound 
to  get  back  at  them  some  way,  he'd  said  he  would 
—  he'd  left  Grasslands  swearing  vengeance,  and  had 
been  only  waiting  his  opportunity.  The  lawyer  nodded 
in  understanding  agreement  and,  Mrs.  Janney  return- 
ing, they  drew  up  to  the  table  and  conferred  in  low 
voices. 

What  Whitney  said  confirmed  the  Janneys'  belief. 
He  told  of  his  interview  with  Price;  the  man's  anger 
and  threats.  Nevertheless  he  was  of  the  opinion  that 
the  plot  to  kidnap  the  child  had  not  been  undertaken 
in  sudden  passion,  but  had  probably  been  for  some 
time  germinating  in  Chapman's  mind.  The  news  of 
Bebita's  loss,  telephoned  to  the  office  by  Miss  Maitland, 
while  it  had  shocked,  had  not  altogether  surprised 
him,  though  he  had  hardly  thought  the  young  man's 
desire  to  get  square  would  have  carried  him  to  such 
lengths.  Immediately  after  Esther's  communication, 
George  had  telephoned  to  Price's  office  receiving  the 
answer  that  he  was  not  there  but  could  probably  be 
found  at  the  Hartleys'  at  Cedar  Brook.  From  the 
Hartleys  they  had  learned  that  Mr.  Price  was  in  town, 
and  had  sent  word  that  morning  he  would  not  come  out 
this  week-end. 

There  were  other  circumstances  which  the   lawyer 
182 


Miss  Haitian  d  in  a  New  Light 

said  pointed  to  Price.  These  they  could  hear  from 
Mrs.  Babbitts  who  had  made  some  important  discover- 
ies. He  rose  to  send  for  her,  but  Mrs.  Janney  stayed 
him  with  a  gesture  —  before  they  went  into  that  she 
would  like  to  see  Miss  Maitland  and  hear  from  her 
exactly  what  had  occurred.  Mr.  Whitney,  suavely 
agreeable,  sent  a  summons  for  Esther,  then  softly  closed 
the  door  into  the  room  where  Suzanne  lay. 

"  Mrs.  Price  is  very  bitter  against  her,"  he  said  in 
explanation. 

Mrs.  Janney,  too  wrought  up  for  polite  hypocrisies, 
said  brusquely : 

"  Oh,  that's  exactly  like  Suzanne.  She  has  no  bal- 
ance at  all.  Of  course  we  can't  blame  Miss  Maitland 
—  it's  not  her  fault." 

Mr.  Whitney  dropped  back  into  his  revolving  desk 
chair  and  swung  it  toward  her  with  a  lurch  of  his 
body: 

"  She  tells  a  very  clear  story  —  extremely  clear. 
I'll  let  you  get  your  own  impression  of  it  and  then 
we'll  have  a  talk  with  Mrs.  Babbitts  and  you  can 
see  — " 

A  knock  on  the  door  interrupted  him;  in  answer  to 
his  "  Come  in,"  Esther  entered.  She  halted  a  moment 
on  the  threshold,  her  eyes  touching  the  faces  of  her 
employers  questioningly,  as  if  she  was  not  sure  of  her 
reception.  But  Mrs.  Janney's  quick,  "  Oh,  Miss  Mait- 

183 


Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

land)  I  want  to  see  you,"  brought  her  across  the  sill. 
Though  she  looked  harassed  and  distressed,  her  man- 
ner showed  a  restrained  composure.  She  took  a  chair 
facing  them,  meeting  their  glances  with  a  steady  direct- 
ness. Mrs.  Janney's  demand  for  information  was 
promptly  answered ;  indeed  her  narrative  was  so  devoid 
of  unnecessary  detail,  so  confined  to  essentials,  that  it 
suggested  something  gone  over  and  put  in  readiness  for 
the  telling. 

She  had  taken  Bebita  to  the  dressmaker  and  the 
oculist,  the  child  accompanying  her  into  both  places. 
At  the  third  stop,  Justin's,  she  had  persuaded  Bebita 
to  stay  in  the  taxi.  She  had  left  it  at  the  curb  and 
had  not  been  more  than  ten  minutes  in  the  store.  When 
she  came  out  it  was  gone.  She  had  spent  some  time 
looking  for  it,  searched  up  and  down  the  street,  and, 
though  she  was  frightened,  she  could  not  believe  any- 
thing had  happened.  Her  idea  had  been  that  Bebita, 
tired  of  waiting  or  wanting  to  play  a  joke  on  her,  had 
prevailed  on  the  driver  to  return  to  the  Fifth  Avenue 
house.  She  had  hailed  a  cab  and  gone  back  there  and 
it  was  not  till  she  saw  Mrs.  Price  that  she  realized 
the  real  extent  of  the  calamity.  Mrs.  Price  had  been 
utterly  overwhelmed,  and,  not  knowing  what  else  to 
do,  she  had  called  up  Grasslands  for  instructions. 

Mr.  Janney,  who  had  been  twisting  and  turning  on 
his  chair,  burst  out  with: 

184 


Miss  Maitland  in  a  New  Light 

"  The  man  —  the  driver  —  did  you  notice  him  ?  " 

She  lifted  her  hands  and  dropped  them  in  her  lap. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Janney,  of  course  I  didn't.  Does  any  one 
erer  look  at  those  men?  He  never  got  off  his  seat, 
opened  the  door  by  stretching  his  arm  round  from  the 
front.  I  have  a  sort  of  vague  memory  of  his  face  when 
I  called  him  off  the  stand,  and  I  think  —  but  I  can't  be 
sure  —  that  he  wore  goggles." 

"  It's  needless  to  ask  if  you  remember  the  number," 
Mrs.  Janney  said. 

The  girl  answered  with  a  hopeless  shake  of  the 
head. 

"  You  say  you  ran  about  looking  for  the  taxi  " — 
it  was  Mr.  Janney  again  — "  Why  did  you  waste  that 
time?  " 

"  Mr.  Janney,"  she  leaned  toward  him  insistent,  but 
with  patience  for  his  afflicted  state,  "  I  thought  it  had 
gone  somewhere  farther  along.  You  know  how  they 
won't  let  the  vehicles  stand  in  Fifth  Avenue.  I  sup- 
posed it  was  down  the  block  or  round  the  corner  on  a 
side  street.  I  asked  the  door-man  but  he  hadn't  no- 
ticed. I  looked  in  every  direction  and  even  when  I 
finally  gave  up  and  went  after  her  I  hadn't  an  idea 
that  she'd  been  stolen." 

"Time  lost  — all  that  time  lost!"  wailed  the  old 
man  and  began  to  cry. 

*'  Come,  come,  Mr.  Janney,"  said  Whitney,  "  don't 
185 


Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

despond.  It's  not  as  bad  as  all  that,  and  I'm  pretty 
confident  we'll  have  her  back  all  right  before  very 
long." 

Mr.  Janney,  with  his  face  in  his  handkerchief,  emitted 
sounds  that  no  one  could  understand.  His  wife  silenced 
him  with  a  peremptory,  "  Be  quiet,  Sam,"  and  returned 
to  Miss  Maitland: 

"  You  say  you  dissuaded  her  from  going  into  Jus- 
tin's. Why  did  you  do  that?  " 

For  the  first  time  the  girl  lost  her  even  poise.  As 
she  answered  her  voice  was  unsteady :  "  We  were  so 
pressed  for  time  and  I  knew  I  could  get  through  much 
quicker  without  her.  That's  why  I  did  it  —  begged 
her  to  stay  in  the  taxi  and  she  said  she  would," —  she 
stopped,  biting  on  her  under  lip,  evidently  unable  to 
go  on. 

There  was  a  moment's  silence  broken  by  Mrs.  Jah- 
ney's  voice  low  and  grim : 

"  The  man  heard  you  and  knew  that  was  his  chance." 

Miss  Maitland,  her  eyes  down,  the  bitten  lip  showing 
red  against  its  fellow,  said  huskily : 

"  You  must  blame  me  —  you  can't  help  it  —  but  I'd 
rather  have  died  than  had  such  a  thing  happen." 

Mr.  Janney  began  to  give  forth  inarticulate  sounds 
again  and  his  wife  said  with  a  sort  of  dreary  resigna- 
tion: 

"Oh,  I  don't  blame  you,  Miss  Maitland.  Nobody 
186 


Miss  Maitland  in  a  New  Light 

does.     Mrs.  Price  is  not  responsible;  she  doesn't  know 
what  she's  saying." 

"  Of  course,  of  course,"  came  in  Whitney's  deep, 
bland  voice,  "  we  all  understand  Mrs.  Price's  feelings 
—  quite  natural  under  the  circumstances.  And  Miss 
Maitland's  too."  He  rose  and  pressed  a  bell  near  the 
door.  "  Now  if  you've  heard  all  you  want  I'll  call  in 
George  and  we'll  talk  this  over.  And  Miss  Maitland," 
he  turned  to  her,  urbanely  kind  and  courteous,  "  could 
I  trouble  you  to  go  back  to  Mr.  Quincy's  office;  just 
for  a  little  while?  We  won't  keep  you  waiting  very 
long  this  time." 

A  very  dapper  young  man  had  answered  the  sum- 
mons and  under  his  escort  Esther  withdrew.  Whitney 
went  to  a  third  door  connecting  with  his  son's  rooms, 
opened  it  and  said  in  a  low  voice : 

"  George,  go  and  get  Molly.  We're  ready  for  her 
now." 

Coming  back,  he  stood  for  a  moment  by  the  desk,  and 
swept  the  faces  of  his  clients  with  a  meaning  look : 

"  What  you're  going  to  hear  from  Mrs.  Babbitts 
will  be  something  of  a  shock.  She's  unearthed  several 
rather  startling  facts  that  in  my  opinion  bear  on  this 
present  event  and  what  led  up  to  it.  It's  a  peculiar 
situation  and  involves  not  only  Price  but  Miss  Mait- 
land." 

Mrs.  Janney  stared: 

187 


Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

"  Miss  Maitland  and  Chapman !  What  sort  of  a 
situation?  " 

"  At  this  stage  I'll  simply  say  mysterious.  But 
I'm  afraid,  my  dear  friend,  that  your  confidence  in 
the  young  woman  has  been  misplaced.  However,  be- 
fore I  go  any  further  I'll  let  you  hear  what  Mrs.  Bab- 
bitts has  to  say  and  draw  your  own  conclusions." 

What  Mrs.  Babbitts  had  to  say  came  not  as  one 
shock  but  as  a  series.  Mrs.  Janney  could  not  at  first 
believe  it;  she  had  to  be  shown  the  notes  of  the  tele- 
phone message,  and  dropped  them  in  her  lap,  staring 
from  her  husband  to  Wilbur  Whitney  in  aghast  ques- 
tion. Mr.  Janney  seemed  stunned,  shrunk  in  his 
clothes  like  a  turtle  in  its  shell.  It  was  not  until  the 
lawyer,  alluding  to  the  loss  of  the  jewels,  mentioned 
Miss  Maitland's  possible  participation  either  as  the 
actual  thief  or  as  an  accomplice,  that  he  displayed  a 
suddenly  vitalized  interest.  His  body  stretched  for- 
ward, and  his  neck  craned  up  from  its  collar  gave  him 
more  than  ever  the  appearance  of  a  turtle  reaching  out 
of  its  shell,  his  voice  coming  with  a  stammering  urgency : 

"  But  —  but  —  no  one  can  be  sure.  We  mustn't  be 
too  hasty.  We  can't  condemn  the  girl  without  suffi- 
cient evidence.  Some  one  else  may  have  been  there 
and—" 

Mrs.  Janney  shut  him  off  with  an  exasperated  impa- 
tience : 

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Miss  Maitland  in  a  New  Light 

"  Oh,  Sam,  don't  go  back  over  all  that.  I  don't 
care  who  took  them;  I  don't  care  if  I  never  see  them 
again.  It's  only  the  child  that  matters."  Then  to 
Whitney  the  inconsequential  disposed  of,  "  We  must 
make  a  move  at  once,  but  we  must  do  it  quietly  with- 
out anything  getting  into  the  papers." 

Whitney  nodded: 

"That's  my  idea." 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  —  go  directly  to  him  ?  " 

"  No,  not  yet.  Our  first  step  will  be  made  as  you 
suggest,  very  quietly.  We're  going  to  keep  the  mat- 
ter out  of  the  papers  and  away  from  the  police.  Keep 
it  to  ourselves  —  do  it  ourselves.  And  I  think  —  I 
don't  want  to  raise  any  false  hopes  —  but  I  think  we 
can  lay  our  hands  on  Bebita  to-night." 

"How  —  where?"  Mr.  Janney's  head  was  thrust 
forward,  his  blurred  eyes  alight. 

"  If  you  don't  mind,  I'm  not  going  to  tell  you.  I'm 
going  to  ask  you  to  leave  it  to  me  and  let  me  see  if 
my  surmises  are  correct.  If  Chapman  has  her  where 
I  think  he  has,  I'll  give  her  over  to  you  by  ten  o'clock. 
If  I'm  mistaken  it  will  only  mean  a  short  postpone- 
ment. He  can't  keep  her  and  he  knows  it." 

"  The  blackguard !  "  groaned  the  old  man  in  help- 
less wrath. 

Mrs.  Janney  wasted  neither  time  nor  energy  in  futile 
passion.  She  attacked  another  side  of  the  situation', 

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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

"  What  are  we  to  do  with  Miss  Maitland?  You 
can't  arrest  her." 

"  Certainly  not.  She's  a  very  important  person  and 
we  must  have  her  under  our  eye.  You  must  treat  her 
as  if  you  entirely  exonerated  her  from  all  blame  — 
maintain  the  attitude  you  took  just  now  when  talking 
with  her.  If  my  immediate  plan  should  fail  our  best 
chance  of  getting  Bebita  without  publicity  and  an  ugly 
scandal  will  be  through  her.  She  must  have  no  hint 
of  what  we  think,  must  believe  herself  unsuspected,  and 
free  to  come  and  go  as  she  pleases." 

"  You  mean  she's  to  stay  on  with  us  ?  ?'  Mr.  Jan- 
ney's  voice  was  high  with  indignant  protest. 

"  Exactly  —  she  remains  the  trusted  employee  with 
whose  painful  position  you  sympathize.  It  won't  be 
difficult,  for  you  won't  see  much  of  her.  You'll  nat- 
urally stay  here  in  town  till  Bebita  is  found.  What  I 
intend  to  do  with  her  is  to  send  her  back  to  Grasslands 
with  a  competent  jailer — "  he  paused  and  pointed 
where  Molly  sat,  silent  and  almost  forgotten. 

For  a  moment  the  Janneys  eyed  her,  questioning 
and  dubious,  then  Mrs.  Janney  voiced  their  mutual 
thought : 

"Is  Mrs.  Babbitts,  alone,  a  sufficient  guard?" 

The  lawyer  smiled. 

"  Quite.  Miss  Maitland  doesn't  want  to  run  away. 
She  knows  too  much  for  that.  No  position  could  be 

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Miss  Maitland  in  a  New  Light 

better  for  our  purpose  than  to  leave  her  —  apparently 
unsuspected  —  alone  in  that  big  house.  She  will  be 
confident,  possibly  take  chances."  He  turned  on  Molly, 
glowering  at  her  from  under  his  overhanging  brows. 
"  The  safest  and  quickest  means  of  communication 
with  Grasslands,  when  the  family  is  in  town  and  the 
servants  ignorant  of  the  situation,  would  be  the  tele- 
phone." 

That  ended  the  conference.  Mrs.  Janney  went  to 
get  Suzanne  and  Molly  received  her  final  instructions. 
She  was  to  return  to  Grasslands  with  Miss  Maitland, 
Ferguson  could  take  them  in  his  motor.  She  was  to 
sit  in  the  back  seat  with  the  lady  and  casually  drop 
the  information  that  she  had  come  to  town  in  answer 
to  a  wire  from  the  Whitney  office.  She  might  have 
seen  suspicious  characters  lurking  about  the  grounds 
or  in  the  woods.  On  no  account  was  she  to  let  her 
companion  guess  that  Price  was  suspected,  and  any 
remarks  which  might  place  the  young  woman  more 
completely  at  her  ease,  allay  all  sense  of  danger,  would 
be  valuable. 

They  left  the  room  and  went  into  the  entrance  hall 
where  Esther,  and  presently  Mrs.  Janney,  joined  them. 
Whitney  struck  the  note  of  a  reassuring  friendliness 
in  his  manner  to  the  girl,  and  the  old  people,  rather 
reservedly  chimed  in.  She  seemed  grateful,  thanked 
them,  reiterating  her  distress.  In  the  elevator,  going 

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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

down,  Molly  noticed  that  she  fell  into  a  staring  ab- 
straction, starting  nervously  as  the  iron  gate  swung 
back  at  the  ground  floor. 

Ferguson,  waiting  on  the  curb,  saw  them  as  they 
emerged  from  the  doorway.  His  eyes  leaped  at  the 
girl,  and,  as  she  crossed  the  sidewalk,  were  riveted  on 
her.  Their  expression  was  plain,  yearning  and  pas- 
sion no  longer  disguised.  If  she  saw  the  look  she  gave 
no  sign,  nodded  to  him,  and,  leaving  Molly  to  explain, 
climbed  into  the  back  seat  and  sunk  in  a  corner. 
Though  the  afternoon  was  hot  she  picked  up  the  cloak 
lying  on  the  floor  and  drew  it  round  her  shoulders. 

The  drive  home  was  very  silent.  Molly  gave  the 
prescribed  reasons  for  her  presence  and  heard  them 
answered  with  the  brief  comments  of  inattention.  She 
also  touched  on  the  other  matters  and  found  her  com- 
panion so  unresponsive  that  she  desisted.  It  was  evi- 
dent that  Esther  Maitland  wanted  to  be  left  to  her 
own  thoughts.  Huddled  in  the  cloak,  her  eyes  fixed 
on  the  road  in  front,  she  sat  as  silent  and  enigmatic  as 
a  sphinx. 


192 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE    HOUSE    IN    GAYLE    STREET 

THE  Janney  party  left  the  office  soon  after 
Molly  and  Esther.  They  had  decided  to  stay 
at  the  St.  Boniface  hotel  where  rooms  had 
already  been  engaged,  and,  with  Suzanne  swathed  in 
veils  and  clinging  to  her  mother's  arm,  they  were  es- 
corted to  the  elevator  and  cheered  on  their  way  by 
the  two  Whitneys.  When  the  car  slid  out  of  sight 
the  father  and  the  son  went  back  into  the  old  man's 
room. 

It  was  now  late  afternoon,  the  sun,  sinking  in  a 
fiery  glow,  glazed  the  waters  of  the  bay,  seen  from  these 
high  windows  like  a  golden  floor.  The  day,  which  had 
opened  fresh  and  cool,  had  grown  unbearably  hot ; 
even  here,  far  above  the  street's  stifling  level,  the  air 
was  breathless.  The  men,  starting  the  electric  fans, 
sat  down  to  talk  things  over  and  wait.  For  the  ma- 
chinery of  "  the  move  "  spoken  of  by  Wilbur  Whitney 
already  had  been  set  in  motion. 

Immediately  after  Esther's  telephone  message  O'Mal- 
ley  had  been  called  up  and,  with  an  assistant,  dis- 

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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

patched  to  watch  the  Gayle  Street  house.  As  Whit- 
ney had  told  his  clients,  the  news  of  the  child's  disap- 
pearance had  hardly  surprised  him.  Chapman's  anger 
and  threats  portended  some  violent  action  of  reprisal, 
and,  even  as  the  lawyer  had  questioned  what  form  it 
might  take,  came  the  answer.  Chapman  had  stolen  his 
own  child  and  had  a  hiding  place  prepared  and  waiting 
for  her  reception.  It  was  undoubtedly  only  a  tem- 
porary refuge,  he  would  hardly  keep  her  in  such  sordid 
surroundings.  The  Whitneys  saw  it  as  a  night's 
bivouac  before  a  longer  flight.  And  that  flight  would 
never  take  place;  every  exit  was  under  surveillance, 
there  was  no  possibility  of  escape.  The  two  men,  smok- 
ing tranquilly  under  the  breath  of  the  electric  fans, 
were  quietly  confident.  They  would  bring  Chapman's 
vengeance  to  an  abrupt  end  and  avert  an  ignominious 
family  scandal.  Meantime  they  awaited  O'Malley  — 
who  was  to  return  to  the  office  for  George  —  and  as  they 
waited  discussed  the  kidnapping,  knowledge  supple- 
mented by  deductions. 

When  Chapman  had  decided  on  it  he  had  instructed 
Esther,  telling  her  to  inform  him  when  the  opportunity 
offered.  This  she  could  do  by  letter,  or,  if  time  pressed, 
by  telephone  from  a  booth  in  the  village.  The  trip 
to  New  York  had  been  planned  several  days  in  advance 
and  he  had  been  advised  of  it,  its  details  probably  tele- 
phoned in  the  day  before.  He  —  or  some  one  in  his 

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The  House  in  Gayle  Street 


pay  —  had  driven  the  taxi.  It  had  been  stationed  in 
the  rank  near  the  house,  where  in  the  dead  season  there 
were  few  vehicles  and  from  whence  the  extra  one  needed 
by  Suzanne  would  naturally  be  taken.  That  Esther, 
with  a  long  list  of  commissions  to  execute,  should  leave 
the  child  in  the  cab  was  an  entirely  natural  proceeding. 
Her  explanation  of  her  subsequent  actions  was  also 
disarmingly  plausible,  and  the  minutes  thus  expended 
gave  the  time  necessary  for  the  driver  to  make  his 
get-away.  Before  she  had  acquainted  Suzanne  with 
the  news,  the  child  was  hidden  in  the  room  at  76  Gayle 
Street. 

Whether  the  room  was  taken  for  this  purpose  was  a 
question.  If  it  was  then  the  idea  had  been  in  Chapman's 
mind  for  weeks  —  it  was  the  "  coming  back  "  he  had 
hinted  at  when  he  left  Grasslands.  If,  however,  it  had 
been  hired  as  a  place  of  rendezvous  with  his  confeder- 
ate, it  had  assisted  them  in  the  carrying  out  of  their 
plot  —  might  indeed  have  suggested  it.  For  as  a  lair 
in  which  to  lie  low  it  offered  every  advantage  —  se- 
cluded, inconspicuous,  the  rest  of  the  floor  untenanted. 
They  could  keep  the  child  there  without  rousing  a  sus- 
picion, for  if  Chapman  was  with  her  —  and  they  took 
for  granted  that  he  was  —  she  would  be  contented  and 
make  no  outcry.  She  loved  him  and  was  happy  in  his 
society. 

"  Poor  devil !  "  growled  the  old  man.  "  You  can't 
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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

help  being  sorry  for  him,  even  if  he  did  do  it  to  hit 
back.  It's  his  child  and  he's  fond  of  her." 

George  gave  a  short  laugh : 

"  I  fancy  it's  more  the  hitting  back  than  the  fond- 
ness. Chapman's  not  shown  up  lately  in  a  very  senti- 
mental light.  It  wouldn't  surprise  me  if  he'd  ransom 
in  the  back  of  his  mind.  But  we'll  put  an  end  to  his 
ambitions  or  parental  longings  or  whatever's  inspiring 
him."  He  looked  at  his  watch,  then  rose.  "  It's  a 
quarter  past  seven  and  O'Malley's  due  at  the  half 
hour.  It's  understood  we're  to  bring  the  child  here 
first?  " 

His  father  gave  an  assenting  grunt  and  hitched  his 
chair  into  the  current  of  air  from  the  fan. 

George  turned  on  the  lights,  their  tempered  radiance 
flooding  the  room,  the  windows  starting  out  as  black 
squares  sewn  with  stars. 

"  I  don't  quite  see  what  I'm  going  to  say  to  him," 
he  muttered,  a  sidelong  eye  on  his  father. 

"  Say  nothing,"  came  the  answer.  "  Bring  the  child 
back  here  —  that's  your  job.  Leave  him  to  me.  Mrs. 
Janney  and  I'll  have  it  out  with  him  when  the  time 
comes." 

On  the  tick  of  half-past  seven  O'Malley  appeared. 
Trickles  of  perspiration  ran  down  his  red  face,  and 
his  collar  was  melted  to  a  sodden  band. 

"  Gee,"  he  panted  as  he  ran  a  handkerchief  round 
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The  House  in  Gayle  Street 


his  neck,  "  it's  like  a  Turkish  bath  down  there  in  the 
street." 

"  Well,"  said  George,  impatient  of  all  but  the  main 
issue,  "  is  it  all  right?  " 

"  Yep  —  I've  left  two  men  in  charge  —  every  exit's 
covered.  And  there's  only  one  they  could  use  —  no 
way  out  back  except  over  the  fences  and  through  other 
houses." 

"  He  could  hardly  tackle  that  with  a  child." 
"  He  couldn't  tackle  it  alone  and  make  it  —  not  the 
way  I've  got  things  fixed.  And  I've  worked  out  our 
line  of  action;  Stebbins  relieved  me  at  half -past  six 
and  I  went  and  had  a  seance  with  the  janitor.  Said  I 
was  coming  round  later  with  a  man  who  was  looking  for 
a  room  —  the  room  I'd  been  inquiring  about.  That'll 
let  us  in  quiet;  right  up  to  the  top  floor  and  no  ques- 
tions asked." 

"  The  only  hitch  possible  can  come  from  Chapman 
—  he  may  be  ugly  and  show  his  teeth." 
The  old  man  answered : 

"  I  guess  he'll  be  tractable.  If  he's  inclined  to  argue 
bring  him  along  with  you.  It's  after  eight.  I  don't 
want  to  sit  here  half  the  night.  Get  busy  and  go." 

O'Malley  had  a  taxi  waiting  and  they  slid  off  up 
the  deserted  regions  of  Broadway.  After  a  few  blocks 
they  swerved  to  the  left,  plunging  into  a  congeries  of 
mean  streets  where  a  network  of  fire-escapes  encaged 

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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

the  house  fronts.  The  lights  from  small  shops  illu- 
mined the  sidewalks,  thick  with  sauntering  people.  The 
taxi  moved  slowly,  children  darting  from  its  approach, 
swept  round  a  corner  and  ran  on  through  less  animated 
lanes  of  travel,  upper  windows  bright,  disheveled  figures 
leaning  on  the  sills,  vague  groupings  on  front  steps. 
At  intervals,  like  the  threatening  voice  of  some  advanc- 
ing monster,  came  the  roar  of  the  elevated  trains,  sweep- 
ing across  a  vista  with  a  rocking  rush  of  light.  O'Mal- 
ley  drew  himself  to  the  edge  of  the  sea  and  peered  out 
ahead. 

"  We're  not  far  off  now,"  he  muttered.  "  We'll  stop 
at  the  corner  of  the  block  —  there's  a  book -binding 
place  there  that's  dark  and  quiet.  If  we  go  to  the 
door  they  might  catch  on,  get  panicky,  and  make  a 
row." 

At  one  end  of  the  street's  length  the  lamp-spotted 
darkness  of  Washington  Square  showed  like  a  spangled 
curtain.  The  cab  turned  from  it  and  crossed  a  wide 
avenue  over  which  the  skeleton  structure  of  the  elevated 
straddled  like  a  vast  centipede.  Beyond  stretched  a 
darkling  perspective  touched  at  recurring  intervals  with 
the  white  spheres  of  lamps.  It  was  a  propitious  time, 
the  evening  overflow  dispersed,  the  loneliness  of  the 
deep  night  hours,  when  a  footfall  echoes  loud  and  a 
solitary  figure  looms  mysterious,  not  yet  come. 

The  cab  drew  up  at  the  curb  by  the  shuttered  face  of 
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The  House  in  Gayle  Street 


the  book  bindery  and  the  man  alighted.  With  a  low 
command  to  the  driver,  O'Malley,  George  beside  him, 
walked  up  the  block.  From  a  shadowy  doorway  a 
figure  detached  itself,  slunk  by  them  with  a  whispered 
hail  and  vanished.  Toward  the  street's  far  end  they 
stopped  at  a  door  level  with  the  sidewalk,  and  O'Malley, 
bending  to  scrutinize  a  line  of  push  buttons,  pressed 
one. 

"  Is  this  the  place?  "  George  whispered,  in  startled 
revulsion. 

"  This  is  the  place.  And  a  good  one  for  Price's  pur- 
pose as  you'll  see  when  you  get  in." 

The  young  man  noted  the  battered  doorway,  slightly 
out  of  plumb,  then  stepped  back  and  glanced  at  the 
facade.  Many  of  the  windows,  uncurtained  and  open, 
were  lit  up.  Those  of  the  top  floor  —  dormers  project- 
ing from  a  mansard  roof  —  were  dark.  He  was  about 
to  call  O'Malley's  attention  to  this,  when  the  sounds 
of  footsteps  within  the  house  checked  him. 

There  was  a  rattling  of  locks  and  bolts  and  the  door 
swung  open  disclosing  a  man,  grimy,  old  and  bent,  a 
lamp  in  his  hand.  He  squinted  uncertainly  at  them, 
then  growled  irritably  as  he  recognized  O'Malley: 

"  Oh,  it's  you.  I  thought  you  wasn't  comin'  ?  If 
you'd  been  any  later  you  wouldn't  'a  got  me  up." 

O'Malley  explained  that  the  gentleman  was  de- 
tained —  couldn't  get  away  any  earlier,  very  sorry, 

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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

but  they'd  be  quick  and  make  no  noise  —  just  wanted 
to  see  the  rooms  and  get  out. 

In  single  file,  the  janitor  leading,  they  mounted  the 
stairs.  To  the  aristocratic  senses  of  George  the  place 
seemed  abominable.  The  staircase,  narrow  and  with- 
out balustrade,  ran  up  steeply  between  walls  once 
painted  green,  now  blotched  and  smeared.  At  the  end 
of  the  first  flight  there  was  a  small  landing,  a  gas 
bracket  holding  aloft  a  tiny  point  of  flame.  It  was  as 
hot  as  an  oven,  the  stifling  atmosphere  impregnated  with 
mingled  odors  of  cooking,  stale  cigar  smoke,  and  the 
mustiness  of  close,  unaired  spaces. 

On  the  second  landing  one  of  the  doors  was  open,  af- 
fording a  glimpse  of  a  squalid  interior,  and  a  man  in  his 
shirt  sleeves  bent  over  a  table  writing.  He  did  not  look 
up  as  they  creaked  by.  From  somewhere  near,  muffled 
by  walls,  came  the  thin,  frail  tinkling  of  guitar  strings. 
As  they  ascended  the  temperature  grew  higher,  the  air 
held  in  the  low  attic  story  under  the  roof,  baked  to  a 
sweltering  heat.  The  janitor  muttered  an  excuse  — 
the  top  floor  being  vacant  the  windows  were  kept  shut 
—  it  would  be  cool  enough  when  they  were  opened. 

He  had  gained  the  last  landing,  which  broadened  into 
a  small  square  of  hall  cut  by  three  doors.  As  he  turned 
to  one  on  the  left,  O'Malley  slipped  by  him  and  drew 
away  toward  that  on  the  right.  There  was  a  moment 
of  silence,  broken  by  the  clinking  of  the  man's  keys. 

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The  House  in  Gayle  Street 


He  had  trouble  in  finding  the  right  one  and  set  his 
lamp  down  on  a  chair,  his  head  bent  over  the  bunch. 
George  was  aware  of  O'Malley's  figure  casting  a  huge 
wavering  shadow  up  the  wall,  edging  closer  to  the  right 
hand  door. 

The  key  was  found  and  inserted  in  the  lock  and  the 
janitor  entered  the  room,  his  lamp  diffusing  a  yellow 
aura  in  the  midst  of  which  he  moved,  a  black,  retreat- 
ing shape.  With  his  withdrawal  the  light  in  the  hall, 
furnished  by  a  bead  of  gas,  faded  to  a  flickering  ob- 
scurity. O'Malley's  shadow  disappeared,  and  George 
could  see  him  as  a  formless  oblong,  pressed  against  the 
panel.  There  was  a  moment  of  intense  stillness,  the 
guitar  tinkling  faint  as  if  coming  through  illimitable 
distances.  The  detective's  voice  rose  in  a  whisper, 
vital  and  intimate,  against  the  music's  spectral  thin- 
ness: 

"  Queer.     There's  not  a  sound." 

His  hand  stole  to  the  handle,  clasped  it,  turned  it. 
Noiselessly  the  door  opened  upon  darkness  into  which 
he  slipped  equally  noiseless. 

That  slow  opening  was  so  surprising,  so  dream-like 
in  its  quality  of  the  totally  unexpected,  that  George 
stood  rooted.  He  stared  at  the  square  of  the  door, 
waiting  for  voices,  clamor,  the  anticipated  in  some  form. 
Then  he  saw  the  darkness  pierced  by  the  white  ray  of 
an  electric  torch  and  heard  a  sound  —  a  rumbled  oath 

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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

from  O'Malley.  It  brought  him  to  the  threshold.  In 
the  middle  of  the  room,  his  torch  sending  its  shaft  over 
walls  and  floor,  stood  the  detective  alone,  his  face,  the 
light  shining  upward  on  the  chin  and  the  tip  of  his  nose, 
grotesque  in  its  enraged  dismay. 

"  Not  here  —  d n  them !  "  and  his  voice  trailed 

off  into  furious  curses. 

"Gone?"  The  surprise  had  made  George  forget- 
ful. 

"  Gone  —  no !  "  The  man  almost  shouted  in  his 
anger.  "  How  could  they  go  ?  —  Didn't  I  say  every 
outlet  was  blocked.  They  ain't  been  here.  They 
ain't  had  her  here.  Get  a  match,  light  the  gas  —  I  got 
to  see  the  place  anyway." 

The  torch's  ray  had  touched  a  gas  fixture  on  the 
wall  and  hung  steady  there.  As  the  men  fumbled  for 
matches,  the  janitor  came  clumping  across  the  hall, 
calling  in  querulous  protest: 

"  Say  —  how'd  you  get  in  there  ?  That  ain't  the 
place  —  it's  rented." 

He  stopped  in  the  doorway,  scowling  at  them  under 
the  glow  of  his  upheld  lamp.  A  match  sputtered  over 
the  gas  and  a  flame  burst  up  with  a  whistling  rush.  In 
the  combined  illumination  the  room  was  revealed  as 
bleak  and  hideous,  the  walls  with  blistered  paper  peel- 
ing off  in  shreds,  the  carpet  worn  in  paths  and  patches, 
an  iron  bed,  a  bureau,  by  the  one  window,  a  table. 

202 


His  face  was  ludicrous  in  its  enraged  enmity 


The  House  in  Gayle  Street 


The  janitor  continuing  his  expostulations,  O'Malley 
turned  on  him  and  flashed  his  badge  with  a  fierce : 

"  Shut  up  there.  Keep  still  and  get  out.  We've 
got  a  right  here  and  if  you  make  any  trouble  you'll 
hear  from  us." 

The  man  shrank,  scared. 

"  Police ! "  he  faltered,  then  looking  from  one  to  the 
other.  "  But  what  for  ?  There's  no  one  here,  there 
ain't  ever  been  any  one  —  it's  took  but  it's  been  empty 
ever  since." 

O'Malley  who  had  sent  aai  exploring  glance  about 
him,  made  a  dive  for  a  newspaper  lying  crumpled  on 
the  floor  by  the  bed.  One  look  at  it,  and  he  was  at  the 
man's  side,  shaking  it  in  his  face: 

"  What  do  you  say  to  this  ?  Yesterday's  —  how'd 
it  get  here?  Blew  in  through  the  window  maybe." 

The  janitor  scanned  the  top  of  the  page,  then  raised 
his  eyes  to  the  watching  faces.  His  fright  had  given 
place  to  bewilderment  and  he  began  a  stammering  ex- 
planation^—  if  any  one  had  been  there  he'd  never 
known  it,  never  seen  no  one  come  in  or  go  out,  never 
heard  a  sound  from  the  inside. 

"  Did  you  see  any  one  —  any  one  that  isn't  a  regular 
resident  —  come  into  the  house  yesterday  or  to-day?  " 
It  was  George's  question. 

He  didn't  know  as  he'd  seen  anybody  —  not  to  no- 
tice. The  tenants  had  friends,  they  was  in  and  out 

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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

all  day  and  part  of  the  night.  And  anyway  he  wasn't 
around  much  after  he'd  swept  the  halls  and  taken  down 
the  pails.  Yesterday  and  to-day  he  guessed  he'd 
stayed  in  the  basement  most  of  the  time.  If  anybody 
had  been  in  the  room  —  and  it  looked  like  they  had 
—  it  was  unbeknownst  to  him.  The  lady  had  the  key ; 
she  could  have  come  in  without  him  seeing;  it  wasn't 
his  business  to  keep  tab  on  the  tenants.  He  showed 
a  tendency  to  diverge  to  the  subject  of  his  duties  and 
George  cut  him  off  with  a  greenback  pushed  into  his 
grimy  claw  and  an  order  to  keep  their  visit  secret. 

Meantime  O'Malley  had  started  on  an  examination 
of  the  room.  There  was  more  than  the  paper  to  prove 
the  presence  of  a  recent  occupant.  The  bed  showed 
the  imprint  of  a  body;  pillow  and  counterpane  were 
indented  by  the  pressure  of  a  recumbent  form.  On  its 
foot  lay  a  book,  an  unworn  copy,  as  if  newly  bought, 
of  "  The  Forest  Lovers."  The  table  held  an  ink  bottle, 
the  ink  still  moist  round  its  uncorked  mouth,  some  paper 
and  envelopes  and  a  pen.  There  was  a  scattering  of 
pins  on  the  bureau,  two  gilt  hairpins  and  a  black  net 
veil,  crumpled  into  a  bunch.  Pushed  back  toward  the 
mirror  was  the  cover  of  the  soap  dish  containing  ashes 
and  the  butts  of  four  cigarettes. 

O'Malley  studied  the  bureau  closely,  ran  the  light 
of  his  torch  back  and  forth  across  it,  shook  out  the 
veil,  sniffed  it,  and  put  it  and  the  two  hairpins  care- 

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The  House  in  Gayle  Street 


fully  into  his  wallet.  Then  with  the  book  and  the 
paper  in  his  hand  he  straightened  up,  turned  to  George, 
and  said: 

"  That  about  cleans  it  up.  There's  nothing  for  it 
now  but  to  go  back." 

The  janitor,  anxiously  watchful,  followed  on  their 
heels  as  they  went  down  the  stairs.  Their  clattering 
descent  was  followed  by  the  strains  of  the  guitar,  thinly 
debonair  and  mocking  as  if  exulting  over  their  discom- 
fiture. In  the  street  the  same  shape  emerged  from 
the  shadows  and  slouched  toward  them.  A  grunted 
phrase  from  O'Malley  sent  it  drifting  away,  spiritless 
and  without  response,  like  a  lonely  ghost  come  in  timid 
expectation  and  repelled  by  a  rebuff. 

O'Malley  dropped  into  a  corner  of  the  taxi  and  as 
it  glided  off,  said: 

"  That's  the  last  of  76  Gayle  Street  as  far  as  they're 
concerned." 

"  Why  do  you  say  that?  " 

In  the  darkness  the  detective  permitted  himself  a  side- 
long glance  of  scorn. 

"  You  don't  leave  the  door  unlocked  in  that  sort  of 
place  unless  you're  done  with  it.  They've  got  all  they 
wanted  out  of  it  and  quit." 

"Abandoned   it?" 

"  That's  right  —  made  a  neat,  quiet  getaway.  They 
didn't  say  they  were  going,  didn't  give  up  the  key  — 

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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

it  was  on  the  inside  of  the  door.  Just  slid  out  and  van- 
ished." 

"  Some  one  was  there  yesterday." 

"  Um,"  O'Malley's  voice  showed  a  pondering  con- 
centration of  thought.  "  Some  one  was  lying  on  the 
bed  reading;  waiting  or  passing  time." 

"  They  couldn't  have  been  there  to-day  —  before 
your  men  were  on  the  job?  " 

O'Malley  drew  himself  to  the  edge  of  the  seat,  his 
chest  inflated  with  a  sudden  breath: 

"  Why  couldn't  they?  Why  couldn't  that  have  been 
the  rendezvous?  Why  couldn't  she  have  lost  the  child 
down  here  on  Gayle.  Street  instead  of  opposite  Justin's? 
Price  was  there  beforehand:  up  she  comes,  tips  him  off 
that  the  taxi's  in  the  street,  sees  him  leave  and  goes 
herself,  across  to  Fifth  Avenue  where  she  picks  up  a 
cab.  It's  safer  than  the  other  way  —  no  cops  round, 
janitor  in  the  basement,  if  she's  seen  nothing  to  be 
remarked  —  a  lady  known  to  have  a  room  on  the  top 
floor."  He  brought  his  fist  down  on  his  knee.  "  That's 
what  they  did  and  it  explains  what's  been  puzzling 
me." 

"What?" 

"  There  was  no  dust  on  the  top  of  the  bureau ;  it  had 
been  wiped  off  to-day.  There  was  no  dust  on  that 
veil;  it  hadn't  been  there  since  yesterday.  A  woman 
fixed  herself  at  that  glass  not  so  long  ago.  Price  had 

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The  House  in  Gayle  Street 


a  date  with  her  to  deliver  the  child  and  he  was  lying 
on  the  bed  reading  while  he  waited.  When  he  heard 
her  he  threw  down  the  book,  got  the  good  word  and 
lit  out.  After  he'd  gone  she  took  off  her  veil  —  what 
for?  To  get  her  face  up  to  show  to  Mrs.  Price  — 
whiten  it,  make  it  look  right  for  the  news  she  was 
bringing.  When  she  left  she  was  made  up  for  the  part 
she  was  to  play.  And  I  take  my  hat  off  to  her,  for  she 
played  it  like  a  star." 


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CHAPTER  XIX 

MOLLY'S  STORY 

IT  was  nearly  seven  when  we  got  back  to  Grass- 
lands. We  alighted  as  silent  as  we  started,  and 
I  was  following  Miss  Maitland  into  the  hall,  Fer- 
guson behind  me,  when  she  turned  in  the  doorway  and 
spoke.  She  had  orders  that  the  servants  must  know 
nothing;  she  was  to  tell  them  that  the  family  would 
stay  in  town  for  a  few  days,  and  for  me  to  be  careful 
what  I  said  before  them.  Then,  before  I  could  an- 
swer, she  glanced  at  Ferguson  and  said  good-by,  her 
eyes  just  touching  him  for  a  moment  and  passing,  cold 
and  weary,  back  to  me.  She'd  wish  me  good-night,  she 
was  going  to  her  room  and  not  coming  down  again 
—  no,  thanks,  she'd  take  no  dinner,  she  was  very  tired. 
She  didn't  need  to  say  that.  If  I  ever  saw  a  per- 
son dead  beat  and  at  the  end  of  her  string  she  was 
it. 

Ferguson  stood  looking  after  her.  I  think  for  the 
moment  he  forgot  me,  or  maybe  he  wasn't  conscious  of 
what  his  face  showed.  Some  way  or  other  I  didn't  like 
to  look  at  him ;  it  was  as  if  I  was  spying  on  something 

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Molly's  Story 


I  had  no  right  to  see.  So  I  turned  away  and  dropped 
into  one  of  the  balcony  chairs,  sunk  down  against  the 
back  and  feeling  limp  as  a  rag. 

Presently  came  his  step  and  he  was  in  front  of  me, 
his  head  bent  down  with  the  hair  hanging  loose  on  his 
forehead,  and  his  eyes  like  they  were  hooks  that  would 
pull  the  words  out  of  me : 

"  What  happened  up  there  at  the  Whitneys?  " 

"  Mr.  Ferguson,"  I  answered  solemn,  *'  I've  told  you 
more  than  I  ought  already.  Is  it  the  right  thing  for 
me  to  go  on  doing  wrong?  " 

"  Yes,"  he  says,  sharp  and  decided,  "  it's  exactly 
the  right  thing.  Keep  on  doing  it  and  we'll  get  some- 
where." 

I  set  my  lips  tight  and  looked  past  him  at  the  lawn. 
He  waited  a  minute  then  said : 

"  I  thought  you  agreed  to  trust  me." 

"  There's  a  good  deal  more  to  it  now  than  there  was 
then." 

"  All  the  more  reason  for  telling  me.  Of  course  I 
can  get  all  I  want  from  Mrs.  Janney  or  either  of  the 
Whitneys;  they  don't  let  ladylike  scruples  stand  in 
the  way.  But  that  means  a  trip  to  town  and  I'm  not 
ready  to  take  it." 

It  was  surprising  how  that  young  man  could  make 
you  feel  like  a  worm  who  had  a  conscience  in  place  of 
common  sense. 

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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

"  Have  I  got  your  word,  sworn  to  on  the  Bible,  if 
we  had  one  here,  not  to  give  her  a  hint  of  it?  " 

"Good  Lord!"  he  groaned.  "Don't  talk  like  the 
ingenue  in  a  melodrama.  Let  me  see  why  the  Whit- 
neys  think  so  much  of  you.  You  must  have  some  in- 
telligence —  give  me  a  sample  of  it." 

That  settled  it. 

"  Take  a  seat,"  I  said.  "  You  make  me  nervous  star- 
ing at  me  like  the  lion  in  the  menagerie  at  the  fat 
child." 

He  sat  down  and  I  told  him  —  the  whole  business, 
what  she  had  said,  what  they  had  thought  —  everything. 
When  I'd  finished  he  rose  up  and,  with  his  hands  bur- 
rowed deep  in  his  pockets,  began  pacing  up  and  down 
the  balcony.  I  didn't  give  a  peep,  watching  him  cau- 
tious from  under  my  eyelids. 

After  a  bit  he  said  in  a  low  voice: 

"  Preposterous  —  crazy !  She  had  no  more  to  do 
with  it  than  you  have." 

"  They  think  different." 

"  I've  gathered  that.  And  Price  had  nothing  to  do 
with  it  either." 

It  was  all  very  well  for  him  to  stand  by  her,  but  to 
sweep  Price  off  the  map!  I  couldn't  sit  still  and  let 
him  rave  on. 

"Price  hadn't?  Take  another  guess.  Price  is  the 
mainspring  of  it." 

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Molly's  Story 


"  I'll  leave  guessing  to  you  —  it's  your  business,  and 
you  appear  to  do  it  very  well." 

"  Say,  drop  me  altogether.  I'm  only  a  paid  servant. 
But  you'll  have  to  admit  that  Mr.  Whitney  and  his  son 
count  pretty  big  in  their  line." 

"  Very  big,  Miss  Rogers.  But  they've  made  a  mis- 
take this  time  —  or  possibly  been  misled.  The  Jan- 
neys  have  never  been  fair  to  Price.  They're  prejudiced 
and  they've  branded  the  prejudice  on.  He  isn't  an 
angel,  neither  is  he  a  rascal.  He  didn't  take  his  child, 
he  never  thought  of  it,  he  couldn't  do  it." 

"Then  who  did?" 

"  That's  what  I  want  to  find  out." 

"  Jerusalem ! "  I  said,  sitting  up,  feeling  like  the 
peaceful  scene  around  me  was  suddenly  dark  and 
strange.  "  You  don't  think  she's  really  been  kid- 
naped? " 

"  I  can't  think  anything  else."  He  stopped  in  front 
of  me,  looking  at  me  hard  and  stern.  "  I'd  like  to  find 
another  solution  but  I'm  unable  to." 

"  But,  gee-whizz !  "  I  stared  at  him,  all  worried  and 
mixed.  "  You  can't  get  away  from  the  facts.  They're 
all  there  —  there's  hardly  a  break." 

"  I  don't  admit  that.  This  man  and  woman  have  got 
characters  and  records  that  haven't  been  considered 
—  but  even  if  you  had  a  hole-proof  case  against  them 
I  wouldn't  believe  it." 


Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

"Oh,  pshaw!"  I  said,  simmering  down,  "you  just 
believe  what  you  want  to.  I've  seen  people  like  that 
before." 

"  I  daresay  you  have,  I'm  not  a  unique  specimen  in 
the  human  family.  But  I'll  tell  you  what  I  am  just 
at  this  juncture  —  the  only  one  among  you  that's 
right."  He  drew  back  and  gave  a  vengeful  wag  of  his 
head  at  me.  "  You've  all  gone  off  at  half-cock  —  do- 
ing your  best  to  ruin  a  man  who's  harmless  and  a  girl 
who's  —  who's  — "  he  stopped,  and  wheeled  away  from 
me.  "  Teh  —  it  makes  me  sick !  Hate  and  anger  and 
jealousy  —  that's  what's  at  the  bottom  of  it.  I  can't 
talk  about  it  any  longer  —  it's  too  beastly.  Good- 
night!" 

He  turned  on  his  heel,  ran  down  the  steps  and  over 
the  grass,  clearing  the  terrace  wall  with  a  leap.  I 
looked  after  him,  fading  into  the  early  night,  disturbed 
and  with  a  sort  of  cold  heaviness  in  my  heart.  He  was 
no  fool  —  suppose  what  he  thought  was  true?  Suppose 
that  dear  child  whom  I'd  grown  to  love  —  but,  rub- 
bish !  I  wouldn't  think  of  it.  It  was  easy  to  account 
for  the  way  he  felt.  Every  little  movement  has  a  mean- 
ing of  its  own  —  and  the  meaning  in  all  his  little  move- 
ments was  love.  He  had  it  bad,  poor  chap,  out  on 
him  like  the  measles,  and  while  you  have  to  be  gentle 
with  the  sick  you  don't  pay  much  attention  to  what 
they  say. 

212 


Molly's  Story 


That  was  a  dreary  evening.  There  being  no  one 
but  me  around  they  served  my  dinner  in  the  dining 
room,  and  it  added  to  the  strain.  Some  of  the  food 
I  didn't  know  whether  to  eat  with  a  fork  or  a  spoon, 
so  I  had  to  pass  up  a  lot  which  was  hard  seeing  I  was 
hungry.  But  when  you're  born  in  an  east  side  tene- 
ment you  feel  touchy  that  way  —  I  wasn't  going  to  be 
criticized  by  two  corn-fed  menials.  I'm  glad  I'm  not 
rich ;  it's  grand  all  right,  but  it  isn't  comfortable. 

The  next  day  —  Saturday  —  it  rained  and  I  sat 
round  in  the  hall  and  my  room  where  I  could  hear  the 
'phone  and  keep  an  eye  on  Miss  Maitland.  All  she  did 
was  to  go  for  a  walk,  and  in  the  afternoon  stay  in  her 
study.  We  saw  each  other  at  meals,  our  conversation 
specially  edited  for  Dixon  and  Isaac. 

Sunday  was  fine  weather  again  and  Ferguson  came 
round  at  twelve.  Miss  Maitland  had  gone  for  another 
walk  and  he  and  I  had  the  hall  to  ourselves.  He'd  been 
in  town  the  day  before,  seen  George  Whitney  and  told 
him  what  he  thought.  When  I  asked  how  Mr.  George 
took  it,  he  gave  a  sarcastic  smile  and  said,  "  He  listened 
very  politely  but  didn't  seem  much  impressed."  He 
also  told  me  they'd  hoped  to  find  the  child  Friday  night 
in  the  room  at  76  Gayle  Street  and  had  been  disap- 
pointed. 

"  Of  course  she  wasn't  there,"  and  he  ended  with  "  it 
was  only  wasting  valuable  time,  but  there's  a  proverb 

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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

about  none  being  so  blind  as  those  who  won't  see." 

After  that  he  dropped  the  subject  —  I  think  he 
wanted  to  get  away  from  it  —  and  pow-wowing  together 
we  worked  around  to  the  robbery,  which  had  been  side- 
tracked by  the  bigger  matter.  He  said  it  had  been  in 
his  mind  to  tell  me  a  curious  circumstance  that  he'd 
come  on  the  night  the  jewels  were  taken  and  that  he 
thought  might  be  helpful  to  me.  It  was  about  a  cigar 
band  that  Miss  Maitland  had  found  in  the  woods  that 
evening  when  he  and  she  had  walked  home  together. 
Before  he  was  half  through  I  was  listening  attentive 
as  a  cat  at  a  mouse  hole,  for  it  was  a  queer  story  and 
had  possibilities.  After  I  put  some  questions  and 
had  it  all  clear,  we  mulled  it  over  —  the  way  I  love  to 
do. 

"  A  man  dropped  it,"  I  said  slowly,  my  thoughts 
chasing  ahead  of  my  words,  "  who  went  through  the 
woods  after  the  storm." 

"  Exactly  —  between  eight-thirty  and  ten-thirty. 
And  do  you  grasp  the  fact  that  those  were  the  hours 
the  house  was  vacated  —  the  logical  time  to  rob  it?" 

"  Yes,  I've  thought  of  that  often  —  wondered  why 
they  waited." 

"  And  do  you  grasp  another  fact  —  that  Hannah  a 
little  before  nine  heard  the  dogs  barking  and  then 
quieting  down  as  if  they  scented  some  one  they  knew?  " 

I  nodded ;  that  too  I'd  made  a  mental  note  of. 


Molly's  Story 


"  It  couldn't  have  been  Price  for  he  was  on  the  way 
to  town  then." 

"Oh,  Price — "  he  gave  an  impatient  jerk  of  his 
head  — "  of  course  it  wasn't  Price,  but  it  was  some  one 
the  dogs  knew.  That  would  have  been  just  about  the 
time  a  man,  watching  the  house  and  seeing  the  ground 
floor  dark,  would  have  come  across  the  lawn  to  make  his 
entrance." 

I  pondered  for  a  spell  then  said: 

"  Did  you  ever  tell  this  to  Mrs.  Janney  or  any  of 
them?" 

"  No,  I  didn't  think  of  it  myself  until  a  little  while 
ago  —  the  night  I  dined  here  and  saw  it  was  one  of  Mr. 
Janney's  cigars.  And  then  what  was  the  use  —  the 
light  by  the  safe  had  fixed  the  time." 

"  Yes  —  if  it  wasn't  for  that  light  you'd  have  got  a 
real  lead.  Too  bad,  for  it's  a  bully  starting  point,  and 
it  would  have  let  out  those  other  two." 

He  stiffened  up,  suddenly  haughty  looking. 

"  There's  no  necessity  of  letting  out  people  who  never 
were  in.  But  if  that  light  was  eliminated  you  could 
work  on  the  theory  that  a  professional  thief  —  an  ex- 
pert safe  opener  —  had  done  the  business." 

"  How  would  the  dogs  know  him?  "  I  asked. 

He  leaned  toward  me,  looking  with  a  quiet  sort  of 
meaning  into  my  face: 

"  Suppose  you  put  that  mind  of  yours,  that  Wilbur 
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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

Whitney  values  so  highly  and  I'm  beginning  to  see  indi- 
cations of,  on  that  question." 

"What's  the  sense  of  wasting  it?  My  mind's  my 
capital  and  I  don't  draw  on  it  unless  there's  a  need. 
You  get  rid  of  that  light  at  one-thirty  and  I'll  expend 
some  of  it." 

I  laughed,  but  he  didn't,  looking  on  the  ground  frown- 
ing and  thoughtful.  Then  a  step  on  the  balcony  made 
us  both  turn.  It  was  Miss  Maitland,  back  from  her 
walk,  looking  much  better,  a  smile  at  the  sight  of  him, 
and  a  little  color  in  her  face.  She  joined  us  and, 
Dixon  announcing  lunch,  Ferguson  invited  himself  to 
stay.  It  was  the  first  human  meal  I'd  eaten  since  the 
doors  of  the  dining  room  had  opened  to  me. 

After  lunch  I  left  them  on  the  balcony  and  went 
upstairs  to  my  room.  I  tried  to  read  but  the  air,  blow- 
ing in  warm  and  sweet  and  the  scent  of  the  garden 
coming  up,  made  the  book  seem  dull,  and  I  went  to  the 
window  and  leaned  out. 

A  while  passed  that  way  and  then  I  saw  Ferguson 
going  home,  a  long  figure  in  white  flannels  striding 
across  the  lawn  to  the  wood  path.  Then  out  from  the 
kitchen  come  the  servants,  all  togged  up,  six  girls  and 
Isaac,  and  away  they  go  on  their  bikes  to  the  beach. 
From  what  I've  seen  of  the  homes  of  the  rich  I'd  rather 
be  in  the  kitchen  than  the  parlor  —  the  help  have  it 
all  over  the  quality  for  plain  enjoyment.  They  went 

216 


Molly's  Story 


off  bawling  gayly,  and  presently  Dixon  appears,  look- 
ing like  a  parson  on  his  day  off,  all  brisk  and  cheerful. 
Last  of  all  comes  Hannah,  her  hair  as  slick  as  a  seal's, 
a  dinky  little  hat  set  on  top  of  it,  and  a  parasol  held 
over  it  all.  She  waddled  off,  large  and  slow,  in  an- 
other direction,  toward  the  woods  —  for  a  cup  of  tea 
and  a  neighborly  gossip  in  Ferguson's  kitchen,  I  guess. 
How  I  wished  I  was  along  with  them ! 

There  I  was  left,  lolling  back  and  forth  on  the  sill, 
kicking  with  my  toes  on  the  floor,  and  wondering  what 
my  poor,  deserted  boy  was  doing  in  town.  Then  sud- 
den, piercing  the  stillness  with  a  sort  of  tingling  thrill, 
comes  the  ring  of  the  hall  telephone. 

I  gave  a  soft  jump,  snatched  up  my  pad  and  pencil, 
and  was  at  the  table  and  had  the  receiver  off  before 
she'd  got  to  the  closet  downstairs.  It  was  so  quiet, 
not  a  sound  in  the  house,  that  I  could  hear  every 
catch  in  her  breath  and  every  tone  in  her  voice.  And 
what  I  heard  was  worth  listening  to.  A  man  spoke 
first : 

"Hello,  who's  this?" 

"  Esther  Maitland.     Is  it  —  is  it  ?  " 

"  Yes  —  C.  P.  I've  waited  until  now  as  I  knew  there 
wouldn't  be  anybody  around.  It's  all  right." 

"  Truly.     You're  not  saying  it  to  keep  me  quiet?  " 

"  Not  a  bit.  There's  no  need  for  any  worry. 
Everything's  gone  without  a  hitch." 

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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

"  And  you  think  it's  safe  —  to  —  to  —  take  the  next 
step?  " 

"  Perfectly.  We're  going  to  get  her  out  of  town  on 
Tuesday  night." 

"  Oh !  "  I  could  hear  the  relief  in  her  voice.  *'  You 
don't  know  what  this  means  to  me?  " 

He  gave  a  little,  dry  laugh: 

"  Me  too  —  I'll  admit  it's  been  something  of  a  strain. 
That's  all  I  wanted  to  say.  Good-by." 

I  scratched  it  on  the  pad,  and  tiptoed  back  to  my 
room,  short  of  breath  a  bit  myself.  What  would  Fer- 
guson say  to  this?  I  stood  by  the  window,  thinking 
how  to  send  it  in,  and  things  went  right  for  out  she 
came  from  the  balcony  and  walked  across  to  a  place 
on  the  lawn  where  there  were  some  chairs  under  a  group 
of  maples.  She  sat  down  and  began  to  read,  and  I  stole 
back  to  the  hall  and  took  a  call  for  the  Whitney  house. 
Being  Sunday  they  might  be  out,  but  that  went  right 
too,  for  I  got  the  Chief  himself.  I  told  him  and  asked 
for  instructions  and  they  came  straight  and  quick : 

"  Bring  her  into  town  to-morrow  morning.  There's 
a  train  at  nine-thirty  you  can  take.  Get  a  taxi  at 
the  depot  and  come  right  up  to  the  office.  You'll  have 
to  tell  her  in  what  capacity  you're  serving  the  family. 
That'll  be  easy  —  you  were  engaged  for  the  robbery. 
Don't  let  her  think  you  have  any  interest  in  the  kidnap- 
ing, and  on  no  account  let  her  guess  we  suspect  her. 

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Molly's  Story 


Say  you've  had  a  message  from  me,  that  some  new  facts 
have  come  in  and  I  want  to  ask  her  a  few  questions  — 
see  if  the  information  tallies  with  what  she  saw.  Keep 
her  quiet  and  calm.  Got  that  straight?  All  right  — 
so  long." 


219 


CHAPTER  XX 

MOLLY'S  STORY 

THE  next  morning,  in  the  hall,  right  after  break- 
fast I  told  her  what  I  had  to  tell  —  I  mean  who 
I  was.  It  gave  her  a  start  —  held  her  listen- 
ing with  her  eyes  hard  on  mine  —  then  when  I  ex- 
plained it  was  for  inside  work  on  the  robbery  she  eased 
up,  got  cool  and  nodded  her  head  at  me,  politely  agree- 
ing. She  understood  perfectly  and  would  go  wherever 
she  was  wanted ;  she  was  glad  to  do  anything  that  would 
be  of  assistance ;  no  one  was  more  anxious  than  she  to 
help  the  family  in  their  distress,  and  so  forth  and  so 
on. 

On  the  way  in  she  was  quiet,  but  I  don't  think  as 
peaceful  as  she  acted.  She  asked  me  some  questions 
about  my  work.  I  answered  brisk  and  bright  and  she 
said  it  must  be  a  very  interesting  profession.  I've  seen 
nervy  people  in  my  time  but  no  woman  that  beat  her 
for  cool  sand,  and  the  way  I'm  built  I  can't  help  but 
respect  courage  no  matter  what  the  person's  like  who 
has  it.  Before  we  reached  town  I  was  full  of  admira- 
tion for  that  girl  who,  as  far  as  I  could  judge,  was  a 
crook  from  the  ground  up. 

220 


When  we  reached  the  office  I  was  called  into  an  inner 
room  where  the  Chief  and  Mr.  George  were  waiting.  I 
gave  them  my  paper  with  the  'phone  message  on  it,  and 
answered  the  few  questions  they  had  to  ask.  I  learned 
then  that  they'd  got  hold  of  more  evidence  against  her. 
O'Malley  had  snooped  round  the  Gayle  Street  locality 
and  heard  that  on  Friday  morning  about  half-past 
eleven  a  taxi,  containing  a  child  resembling  Bebita,  had 
been  seen  opposite  a  book  bindery  on  the  corner  of 
the  block.  I  didn't  hear  any  particulars  but  I  saw 
by  the  Chief's  manner,  quiet  and  sort  of  absorbed,  and 
by  Mr.  George,  like  a  blue-ribbon  pup  straining  at  the 
leash,  that  they  had  Esther  Maitland  dead  to  rights  and 
the  end  was  in  sight. 

After  that  I  was  sent  back  into  the  hall  where  I'd 
left  her  and  told  to  bring  her  into  the  old  man's  private 
office.  We  went  up  the  passage,  a  murmur  of  voices 
growing  louder  as  we  advanced.  She  was  ahead  and, 
as  the  door  opened,  she  stopped  for  a  moment  on  the 
threshold,  quick,  like  a  horse  that  wants  to  shy.  Over 
her  shoulder  I  could  see  in,  and  I  don't  wonder  she 
pulled  up  —  any  one  would.  There,  beside  the  Chief 
and  Mr.  George,  were  the  two  old  Janneys  and  Mrs. 
Price,  sitting  stiff  as  statues,  each  of  them  with  their 
eyes  on  her,  gimlet-sharp  and  gimlet-hard.  They  said 
some  sort  of  "  How  d'ye  do  "  business  and  made  bows 
like  Chinese  mandarins,  but  their  faces  would  have  made 

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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

a  chorus  girl  get  thoughtful.  I  guessed  then  they  knew 
about  the  tapped  message  and  had  come  to  see  Miss 
Maitland  get  the  third  degree.  She  scented  the  trouble 
ahead  too  —  I  don't  see  how  she  could  have  helped  it ; 
there  was  thunder  in  the  air.  But  she  said  good- 
morning  to  them,  cordial  and  easy,  and  walked  over  to 
the  chair  Mr.  George  pushed  forward  for  her. 

Sitting  there  in  the  midst  of  them,  she  looked  at  the 
Chief,  politely  inquiring,  and  I  couldn't  help  but  think 
she  was  a  winner.  Mrs.  Price,  all  weazened  up  and 
washed  out,  was  like  a  cosmetic  advertisement  beside 
her.  She  held  herself  very  straight,  her  hands  folded 
together  in  her  lap,  her  head  up  cool  and  proud.  She 
had  on  the  white  hat  with  the  wreath  of  grapes  and  a 
wash-silk  dress  of  white  with  lilac  stripes  that  set  easy 
over  her  fine  shoulders,  and,  believe  me,  bad  or  good,  she 
was  a  thoroughbred. 

The  Chief,  turning  himself  round  toward  her  with 
a  hitch  of  his  chair,  began  as  bland  and  friendly  as  if 
they'd  just  met  at  a  tea-fest. 

"  We're  very  sorry  to  bother  you  again,  Miss  Mait- 
land. But  certain  facts  have  come  up  since  you  were 
here  that  make  it  necessary  for  me  to  ask  you  a  few 
more  questions." 

She  just  inclined  her  head  a  little  and  murmured: 

"  It's  no  bother  at  all,  Mr.  Whitney.  I'm  only  too 
anxious  to  help  in  any  way  I  can." 

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Molly's  Story 


Honest-to-God  I  think  the  Chief  got  a  jar;  the 
words  came  as  smooth  and  as  cool  as  cream  just  off 
the  ice.  For  a  second  he  looked  at  his  desk  and  moved 
a  paper  knife  very  careful,  as  if  it  was  precious  and  he 
was  afraid  of  breaking  it. 

"  I'm  glad  to  hear  you  say  that,  Miss  Maitland. 
It's  not  only  what  one  would  expect  you  to  feel,  but  it 
makes  me  sure  that  you  will  be  willing  to  explain  cer- 
tain circumstances  concerning  yourself  and  your  —  er 
—  activities  —  that  have  —  well  —  er  —  rather  puzzled 
us." 

It  was  my  business  to  watch  her  and  even  if  it  hadn't 
been  I  couldn't  have  helped  doing  it.  I  saw  just  two 
things  —  the  light  strike  white  across  the  breast  of  her 
blouse  where  a  quick  breath  lifted  it,  and,  for  a  second, 
her  hands  close  tight  till  the  knuckles  shone.  Then 
they  relaxed  and  she  said  very  softly : 

"  Certainly.     I'll  explain   anything." 

"Very  good.  I  was  sure  you  would."  He  leaned 
forward,  one  arm  on  the  desk,  his  big  shoulders  hunched, 
his  eyes  sharp  on  her  but  still  very  kind.  "  We  have 
discovered  —  of  course  you'll  understand  that  our  de- 
tectives have  been  busy  in  all  directions  —  that  nearly 
a  month  ago  you  took  a  room  at  76  Gayle  Street.  Now 
that  I  should  ask  about  this  may  seem  an  unwarranted 
impertinence,  but  I  would  like  to  know  just  why  you 
took  that  room." 

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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

There  was  a  slight  pause.  Mrs.  Price,  who  was  sit- 
ting next  to  me,  an  empty  chair  in  front  of  her,  rustled 
and  in  the  moment  of  silence  I  could  hear  her  breathing, 
short  and  catchy,  like  it  was  coming  hard.  Miss  Mait- 
land, who,  as  the  Chief  had  spoken,  had  dropped  her 
eyes  to  her  hands,  looked  up  at  him: 

"  I  have  no  objection  to  telling  you.  I  took  it  for 
a  school  friend  of  mine  —  Aggie  Brown,  a  girl  I  hadn't 
seen  for  years.  A  month  ago  she  wrote  me  from  St. 
Louis  and  told  me  she  was  coming  to  New  York  to 
study  art  and  asked  me  to  engage  a  room  for  her. 
She  said  she  had  very  little  money  and  it  must  be  in- 
expensive. I  had  heard  of  that  place  from  other  girls 
—  that  it  was  respectable  and  cheap  —  so  I  engaged  the 
room.  It  so  happens  that  my  friend  is  not  yet  in 
New  York.  She  was  delayed  by  illness  in  her  family." 

I  sent  a  look  around  and  caught  them  like  pictures 
going  quick  in  a  movie  —  Mr.  Janney  glimpsing  side- 
ways, worried  and  frowning,  at  his  wife,  Mr.  George,  his 
arm  on  the  back  of  his  chair,  pulling  at  his  little  blonde 
mustache  and  twisting  his  mouth  around,  and  the  Chief 
pawing  absent-minded  after  the  paper  knife.  Miss 
Maitland,  with  her  chin  up  and  her  shoulders  square, 
had  her  eye  on  him,  attentive  and  steady,  like  a  soldier 
waiting  for  orders. 

Then  out  of  the  silence  came  Mrs.  Janney's  voice, 
rumbling  like  distant  thunder : 

224 


Molly's  Story 


**  But  you  went  to  that  room  yourself?  " 

The  Chief's  hand  made  a  quick  wave  at  her  for 
silence.  Miss  Maitland  didn't  seem  to  notice  it;  she 
turned  to  Mrs.  Janney  and  answered : 

"  Yes,  several  times,  Mrs.  Janney.  I'd  had  to  pay 
the  rent  in  advance  and  I  had  a  key,  so  when  I  was  in 
town  and  had  time  to  spare  I  went  there.  It  was  quiet 
and  convenient  —  I  used  to  write  letters  and  read." 

"  Would  you  mind  telling  me  why  Mr.  Chapman  Price 
went  there  too  ?  " 

It  was  the  Chief's  voice  this  time,  quite  low  and 
oh,  so  deep  and  mild.  Miss  Maitland's  attitude  didn't 
change,  but  again  her  hands  clasped  and  stayed  clasped. 
She  gave  a  little,  provocative  smile,  almost  as  if  she 
was  trying  to  flirt  with  him,  and  said: 

"  You  seem  to  know  a  great  deal  about  me  and  my 
affairs,  Mr.  Whitney." 

He  returned  the  smile,  good-humored,  as  if  he  liked 
the  way  she'd  come  back  at  him. 

"  A  little,  Miss  Maitland.  You  see  we  have  had  to, 
unpleasant  but  still  necessary  —  you  have  no  objection 
to  answering?  " 

"  Oh,  not  the  least,  only  — "  her  glance  swept  over 
the  solemn  faces  of  the  others  — "  I'm  afraid  Mrs.  Jan- 
ney may  not  approve  of  what  I've  done.  I  met  Mr. 
Price  there  to  tell  him  about  Bebita;  I  was  sorry  for 
him,  for  the  position  he  was  in.  He  was  fond  of  her 

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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

and  he  heard  almost  nothing  about  her.  So  I  ar- 
ranged to  give  him  news  of  her,  tell  him  how  she  was, 
and  little  funny  things  she  had  said.  It  wasn't  the 
right  thing  to  do  but  I  —  I  —  pitied  him  so." 

A  sound  —  I  can't  call  it  anything  but  a  grunt  — 
came  from  Mrs.  Janney.  Mr.  George,  still  pulling  at 
his  mustache,  shifted  uneasily  in  his  chair.  Beside  me 
I  could  hear  that  stifled  breathing  of  Mrs.  Price,  and 
her  hand,  all  covered  with  rings,  stole  forward  and 
clasped  like  a  bird's  claw  on  the  chair  in  front.  I 
don't  think  Miss  Maitland  noticed  any  of  this.  Her 
eyes  were  on  the  Chief,  fixed  and  sort  of  defiant.  Her 
face  had  lost  its  calm  look;  there  were  pink  spots  on 
her  cheek  bones. 

"  A  natural  thing  to  do,"  said  the  Chief  mildly, 
"  though  hardly  discreet  considering  the  situation. 
But  we  won't  argue  about  that  —  we'll  pass  on  to  the 
business  of  the  moment.  Now  you  told  us  last  time 
you  were  here  that  you  left  the  taxi  in  front  of  Jus- 
tin's. Inquiries  there  of  the  doorman  have  elicited 
the  information  that  he  remembers  the  cab  and  the 
child,  and  says  it  was  still  there  when  you  came  out  and 
that  you  got  into  it  and  drove  away." 

"  How  can  the  doorman  at  a  place  where  hundreds 
of  carriages  stop  every  day  remember  the  people  in 
each  one?"  All  the  softness  was  gone  out  of  her 
voice  and  her  face  began  to  look  different,  as  if  it  had 

226 


Molly's  Story 


grown  thinner.  "  It's  absurd  —  he  couldn't  possibly 
be  sure  of  every  woman  and  child  who  stopped  there. 
My  word  is  against  his,  and  it  seems  to  me  I'm  much 
more  likely  to  know  what  I  did  than  he  is  —  especially 
that  day." 

"  Certainly,  certainly."  The  Chief  was  all  kindly 
understanding.  "  Under  the  circumstances  every  event 
of  that  morning  should  be  impressed  on  your  memory. 
But  another  fact  has  come  up  that  seems  to  us  curious. 
One  of  our  detectives  has  heard  from  a  clerk  in  a  book 
bindery  at  the  corner  near  76  Gayle  Street,  that  on 
Friday  last,  at  about  half-past  eleven,  he  saw  a  taxi 
standing  at  the  curb  there.  He  noticed  a  child  in  it 
talking  to  the  driver  and  his  description  of  this  child, 
her  appearance  and  clothes,  is  a  very  accurate  descrip- 
tion of  Bebita." 

He  looked  at  her  over  his  glasses,  with  a  sort  of 
ominous,  waiting  attention.  I'd  have  wilted  under  it, 
but  she  didn't,  only  what  had  been  a  restrained  quiet- 
ness gave  place  to  a  sort  of  steely  tension.  You  could 
see  that  her  body  all  over  was  as  rigid  as  the  hands 
clenched  together,  the  fingers  knotted  round  each  other. 
It  was  will  and  a  fighting  spirit  that  kept  her  up.  I 
began  to  feel  my  own  muscles  drawing  tight,  wondering 
if  she'd  get  through  and  praying  that  she  would  —  I 
don't  know  why. 

"  It's  quite  possible  that  this  man  —  this  clerk  — 
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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

may  have  seen  such  a  taxi  with  such  a  child  in  it. 
There  must  be  a  great  many  little  girls  in  New  York 
whose  description  would  fit  Bebita.  I  dare  say  if  your 
detective  had  gone  about  the  city  he  would  have  heard 
of  any  number  of  cabs  and  children  that  would  have 
fitted  just  as  well.  I  can't  imagine  why  you're  asking 
me  these  questions  or  why  you  don't  seem  to  believe 
what  I  say.  But  even  if  you  don't  believe  it,  that 
won't  prevent  me  from  sticking  to  it." 

"  A  commendable  spirit,  Miss  Maitland,  when  one  is 
sure  of  one's  facts,"  said  the  Chief,  and  suddenly  push- 
ing back  his  chair  he  rose.  "  Now  I've  just  one  more 
matter  to  call  to  your  attention,  a  little  memorandum 
here,  which,  if  you'll  be  good  enough  to  explain,  we'll 
end  this  rather  trying  interview." 

He  went  over  to  her,  fumbling  in  his  vest  pocket, 
and  then  drew  out  my  folded  paper  and  put  it  into  her 
hand: 

"  It's  the  record  of  a  telephone  message  received  by 
you  yesterday  at  Grasslands,  and  tapped  by  our  de- 
tective, Miss  Rogers." 

He  stepped  back  and  stood  leaning  against  the  desk 
watching  her.  We  all  did;  there  wasn't  an  eye  in  that 
room  which  wasn't  glued  on  that  unfortunate  girl  as 
she  opened  the  paper  and  read  the  words. 

It  was  a  knock-out  blow.  I  knew  it  would  be  —  I 
didn't  see  how  it  couldn't  —  and  yet  she'd  put  up  such  a 

228 


Molly's  Story 


fight  that  some  way  or  other  I  thought  she'd  pull  out. 
But  that  bowled  her  over  like  a  nine  pin. 

She  turned  as  white  as  the  paper  and  her  hands  hold- 
ing it  shook  so  you  could  hear  it  rustle.  Then  she 
looked  up  and  her  eyes  were  awful  —  hunted,  desperate. 
Yet  she  made  a  last  frantic  effort,  with  her  face  like  a 
deatli  mask  and  all  the  breath  so  gone  out  of  her  she 
had  only  a  hoarse  thread  of  voice: 

"I  —  I  —  don't  know  what  this  is  —  oh,  yes,  yes,  I 
mean  I  do.  But  it  —  it  refers  to  something  else  — 
it's  —  it's  —  that  friend  of  mine  —  Aggie  Brown  from 
St.  Louis  —  she's  come  and  Mr.  Price  — " 

She  couldn't  go  on ;  her  lips  couldn't  get  out  any 
words.  You  could  see  the  brain  behind  them  had  had 
such  a  shock  it  wouldn't  work. 

"  Miss  Maitland,"  said  the  Chief,  solemn  as  an  execu- 
tioner, "  we've  got  you  where  you  can't  keep  this  up. 
There's  no  use  in  these  evasions  and  denials.  Where  is 
Bebita?" 

"  I  don't  know  —  I  don't  know  anything  about  her. 
I  swear  to  Heaven  I  don't." 

She  raised  her  voice  with  the  last  words  and  looked 
at  them,  round  at  those  stony  faces,  wild  like  an  animal 
cornered. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you?  Why  do  you  think 
I'd  be  a  party  to  such  a  thing?  Why  don't  you  be- 
lieve me  —  why  can't  you  believe  me?  And  you  don't 

229 


Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

—  not  one  of  you.     You  think  I'm  guilty  of  this  in- 
famous thing.     All  right,  think  it.     Do  what  you  like 
with  me  —  arrest  me,  put  me  in  jail,  I  don't  care." 

She  put  her  hands  over  her  face  and  collapsed  down 
in  her  chair,  like  a  spring  that  had  held  her  up  had 
broken.  That  breathing  beside  me  had  grown  so  loud 
it  sounded  as  if  it  came  from  some  one  running  the 
last  lap  of  a  race.  Now  it  suddenly  broke  into  a  sound 

—  more  like  a  growl  than  anything  else  —  and  Mrs. 
Price  got  up,  shuffling  and  shaking,  her  hands  holding 
on  to  the  chair  in  front. 

"  She  ought  to  be  put  in  jail,"  she  gasped  out. 
"  She's  bad  right  through  —  everything  she's  said  is  a 
lie.  And  she's  a  thief  too." 

There  was  a  movement  of  consternation  among  them 
all  —  getting  up,  pushing  back  chairs,  several  voices 
speaking  together: 

"  Keep  quiet." 

"  Mrs.  Price,  I  beg  of  you  — " 

"  Suzanne,  sit  down." 

But  she  went  on,  looking  like  a  withered  old  witch, 
with  her  bird-like  hands  clutched  on  the  chair  back: 

"  I  won't  sit  down,  I  won't  keep  quiet.  I've  sat  here 
listening  to  all  this  and  I've  had  enough.  I'm  crazy; 
my  baby's  gone;  she's  taken  it,  she's  taken  every- 
thing — "  She  turned  to  her  mother.  "  She  took  your 
jewels  —  I  know  it." 

230 


Mr.  Janney  burst  in  like  a  bombshell.  I  never 
thought  he  could  break  loose  that  way,  with  his  voice 
shrill  and  a  shaking  finger  pointing  into  his  step- 
daughter's face. 

"  Stop  this.  I  can't  stand  for  it  —  I  know  some- 
thing about  that  —  I  saw  — " 

But  she  wouldn't  stop,  no  one  could  make  her : 

"  I  saw  too,  and  I'm  going  to  tell  you.  I  don't 
care  what  you  say,  I  don't  care  what  you  think  of  me 
—  my  heart's  broken  and  I  don't  care  for  anything 
but  to  have  my  baby  back."  She  addressed  her  mother 
again.  "  /  went  to  take  your  jewels  that  night.  Yes, 
I  did;  I  went  to  steal  them  —  not  all  of  them  —  just 
that  long  diamond  chain  you  never  wear.  You  know 
why ;  you  knew  I  hadn't  any  money  and  that  I  had 
to  have  it.  I  was  going  to  sell  it  and  put  what  I  got 
in  stocks  and  if  I  was  lucky  buy  it  back  so  you'd  never 
know.  It  was  /  who  took  Bebita's  torch  —  that's 
why  it  was  lost  —  and  I  went  down  to  the  safe.  I'd 
found  the  combination  in  a  drawer  in  the  library  and 
learnt  it.  And  when  I  opened  it  everything  was  gone. 
Some  one  had  been  there  before  me,  the  cases  were  all 
together  in  their  box  but  they  were  empty."  She 
clawed  at  the  embroidered  purse  hanging  on  her  arm 
and  began  to  jerk  at  the  cord,  pulling  it  open.  "  But 
I  found  something,  something  the  thief  had  dropped, 
lying  on  the  floor  just  inside  the  door."  She  drew  out 


Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

a  twist  of  tissue  paper,  and  unrolling  it  held  it  toward 
the  Chief;  "I  found  that." 

He  took  it,  scrutinizing  it,  puzzled,  through  his 
glasses.  Every  one  of  us  except  Miss  Maitland,  all 
standing  now,  craned  forward  to  see.  It  was  a  pointed 
pink  thing  about  as  big  as  the  end  of  my  little  finger. 
The  Chief  touched  it  and  said: 

"  It  looks  like  a   small  rose." 

"  Yes,  a  chiffon  rosebud,"  Mrs.  Price  cried,  "  and 
she,"  pointing  to  Miss  Maitland,  "  wore  a  dress  that 
night  trimmed  with  them." 

We  all  turned,  as  if  we  were  a  piece  of  mechanism 
worked  by  the  same  spring,  and  stared  at  Miss  Mait- 
land. She  sat  in  the  chair,  not  moving,  looking  straight 
before  her,  weary  and  indifferent.  The  Chief  held  out 
toward  her  the  piece  of  paper  with  the  rose  on  the 
middle  of  it. 

"  Have  you  a  dress  trimmed  with  these?  " 

She  moved  her  eyes  so  they  rested  on  the  rose,  ran 
her  tongue  along  her  lips  and  said: 

"  Yes." 

"  Did  you  wear  it  on  the  night  of  the  robbery  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Did  you  hear  what  Mrs.  Price  has  just  said?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  What  explanation  do  you  make  ?  " 

**  None  —  except  that  I  don't  know  how  it  got  there." 
232 


Molly's  Story 


"  You  deny  that  you  were  there  yourself  that 
night?" 

"  Yes  —  I  was  never  near  the  safe  that  night ;  I 
haven't  the  slightest  idea  how  the  rose  came  to  be  in 
it ;  I  never  took  the  jewels ;  I  have  had  nothing  to  do 
with  Bebita's  disappearance ;  I  haven't  done  any  of  the 
things  you  think  I've  done.  But  what's  the  good  of 
my  saying  so  —  what's  the  good  of  answering  at  all?  " 
She  dropped  her  face  into  her  hands,  her  elbows  propped 
on  her  knees.  The  attitude,  the  tone  of  her  voice, 
everything  about  her,  suggested  an  "  Oh-what's-the- 
use !  "  feeling.  From  behind  her  hands  the  words  came 
dull  and  listless.  "  Do  anything  you  like  with  me ; 
it  doesn't  make  any  difference.  You  think  you've  got 
me  cornered;  that  being  the  case,  I'll  do  whatever  you 
say." 

Mrs.  Janney  made  a  step  toward  her: 

"  Miss  Maitland,  I'll  agree  to  let  the  whole  matter 
drop  —  hush  it  up  and  let  you  go  without  a  word  —  if 
you'll  tell  us  where  Bebita  is." 

Without  moving  her  hands  the  girl  answered: 

"  I  can't  tell,  for  I  don't  know." 

Mrs.  Price  sank  into  her  chair  with  a  loud,  sobbing 
wail.  Some  one  took  her  away  —  Mr.  George,  I  think. 
Then  Mr.  Janney  had  his  say: 

"  If  you're  doing  this  to  protect  Price  — " 

She  cut  him  off  with  a  laugh,  at  least  it  was  meant 
233 


Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

to  be  a  laugh,  but  it  was  a  horrible,  harsh  sound.  As 
she  gave  it  she  lifted  her  head  and  cast  a  look  at  him, 
bitter  and  defiant: 

*'  Protect  him !  I've  no  more  desire  to  protect  Mr. 
Price  than  I  have  to  protect  myself." 

The  Chief's  voice  fell  deep  as  the  church  bell  at  a 
funeral : 

"  If  you  maintain  this  attitude,  Miss  Maitland, 
there's  nothing  for  us  to  do  but  let  the  law  take  its 
course.  Theft  and  kidnaping !  Those  are  pretty  seri- 
ous charges." 

She  nodded: 

"  I  suppose  they  are.  Let  the  law  do  whatever  it 
wants ;  I'm  certainly  not  standing  in  its  way.  But  as 
for  bribing  and  frightening  me  into  admitting  what 
isn't  true,  you  can't  do  it.  All  your  money,"  she 
looked  at  Mrs.  Janney  and  then  at  the  Chief,  "  and 
all  your  threats  won't  influence  me  or  make  me  change 
one  word  of  what  I've  said." 

No  one  spoke  for  a  minute.  She  sat  silent,  her  chin 
on  her  hands,  her  eyes  staring  past  them  out  of  the 
window.  I  had  a  feeling  that  in  spite  of  the  position 
she  was  in  and  what  they  had  on  her,  in  a  sort  of  way 
she  had  them  beaten.  Their  faces  were  glum  and 
baffled,  even  the  Chief  had  an  abstracted  expression  like 
he  was  thinking  what  he  ought  to  do  with  her.  When 
he  spoke  it  was  to  the  Janneys : 

234 


"  Since  Miss  Maitland  persists  in  her  present  pose  of 
ignorance  and  denial,  the  best  thing  for  us  is  to  get  to- 
gether and  decide  on  our  course  of  action."  He 
glanced  across  at  me.  "  We'll  leave  you  here,  Molly. 
Stay  till  we  come  back." 

Away  they  went,  a  solemn  procession,  trailing  across 
the  room.  When  the  door  into  the  main  office  opened 
I  could  hear  Mrs.  Price  crying,  and  I  watched  them, 
catching  Mrs.  Janney's  words  as  she  disappeared : 
"  Oh,  Suzanne,  my  poor,  poor,  girl !  Don't  give  up  — 
don't  be  discouraged  —  we'll  find  her !  " 

It  gripped  me,  made  a  sort  of  prickling  come  in  my 
nose  and  a  twisty  feeling  in  my  under  lip.  I  never 
could  have  believed  that  stern  old  Roman  could  have 
spoken  so  tender  and  loving  to  any  one. 

When  I  looked  at  Miss  Maitland  I  forgot  all  about 
suffering  mothers.  She'd  sunk  down  in  the  chair,  her 
head  resting  against  its  back,  her  eyes  closed.  She  was 
as  white  as  a  corpse,  and  I  wheeled  about  looking  round 
the  room  for  some  kind  of  first  aid  and  muttering, 
"  Gee,  she's  fainted !  " 

A  whisper  came  out  of  her  lips : 

"  Nothing  —  all  right  —  in  a  minute." 

There  was  a  bottle  of  distilled  water  in  a  corner 
and  I  went  to  it,  drew  off  a  glass  and  brought  it  to 
her.  She  couldn't  hold  it  and  I  took  her  round  the 
shoulders  and  pulled  her  up,  saying  out  of  the  inner 

235 


Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

depths  of  me,  that's  always  mushy  about  anything  hurt 
and  forlorn : 

'*  You,  poor  soul,  here  take  this.  I'm  sorry  for  you, 
and  I  can't  help  being  sorry  that  I  had  to  give  you 
away." 

I  held  the  glass  to  her  lips  and  she  drank  a  little. 
Then  I  let  her  fall  back  and  stood  watching  her,  and  I 
felt  mean.  She  raised  her  eyes  and  sent  a  look  into 
mine  that  I'll  never  forget  —  it  made  me  feel  meaner 
than  a  yellow  dog  —  for  it  was  the  look  of  a  suffering 
soul. 

"  Thanks,"  was  all  she  said. 


236 


CHAPTER  XXI 

SIGNED    "  CLANSMEN  " 

THE  consultation  in  the  office  resulted  in  Esther 
Maitland  being  taken  to  O'Malley's  flat  in 
Stuyvesant  Square,  where  his  wife  and  sister 
agreed  to  be  responsible  for  her.  This  course  had 
been  decided  upon  after  some  heated  argument. 
Suzanne  had  clamored  for  her  arrest,  but  the  others 
were  still  determined  to  keep  the  affair  out  of  the  pub- 
lic eye,  which,  if  Esther  was  brought  before  a  magis- 
trate, would  have  been  impossible.  The  Janneys  were 
more  than  ever  convinced  that  Price  was  the  prime 
mover,  and  the  girl's  attitude  had  been  prompted  by 
the  combined  motives  of  love  and  gain.  George,  who 
knew  his  father's  every  phase,  noticed  that  the  old  man 
was  reserved  in  his  comments,  and  wondered  if  his  con- 
viction had  been  shaken  by  Miss  Maitland's  desperate 
denials.  But  if  it  was  he  said  nothing,  agreeing  that 
with  the  girl  hidden  and  unable  to  communicate  with 
the  outside  world,  they  could  concentrate  their  atten- 
tion on  Chapman  and  through  him  locate  the  child. 
Miss  Maitland  was  docile  to  all  their  suggestions. 
237 


Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

She  would  go  wherever  they  wanted,  place  herself  under 
the  surveillance  of  the  two  women,  and  do  whatever  was 
asked  of  her.  She  went  off  in  a  taxi  with  O'Malley,  and 
Molly  was  sent  back  to  Grasslands.  There  was  no  need 
of  her  services  in  town  and  it  was  probable  that  Chap- 
man, believing  his  confederate  to  be  there,  would  call 
up  the  place. 

The  Janncy  party  returned  to  the  hotel,  a  silent, 
gloomy  trio.  The  old  people  were  very  gentle  to 
Suzanne.  On  the  drive  up,  Mrs.  Janney  held  her  in  the 
hollow  of  her  arm,  pressed  close,  yearning  over  her  in 
her  shame  and  sorrow  and  feebleness.  To  the  strong 
woman  she  was  a  child  again,  a  soft,  helpless  thing. 
The  mother  blamed  herself  for  having  been  hard  on 
her. 

After  lunch  old  Sam  suggested  a  drive  —  the  air 
would  do  them  good.  They  tried  to  persuade  Suzanne 
to  come,  but  the  young  woman,  prone  on  the  sofa,  a 
salts  bottle  at  hand,  refused  to  stir.  She  wanted  to  be 
quiet ;  she  wanted  to  rest.  So,  knowing  the  uselessness 
of  argument,  they  kissed  her  and  went. 

Alone,  she  lay  on  her  back  staring  at  the  wall  in 
a  trance-like  concentration.  Her  expression  did  not 
suggest  the  state  of  crushed  shame  under  which  her 
parents  thought  she  languished.  In  fact  her  past  ac- 
tions had  no  place  in  her  mind;  she  had  forgotten  her 
confession  in  the  office.  An  idea,  formidable  and 

238 


Signed  "  Clansmen 


obsessing,  had  taken  possession  of  her,  settled  on  her 
like  a  shadow.  It  was  possible  that  their  conclusions 
were  wrong. 

She  had  had  it  from  the  start,  off  and  on,  coming 
at  her  in  rushes  of  disintegrating  doubt.  She  had  said 
nothing  about  it,  had  tried  to  force  it  down,  and,  talk- 
ing to  them,  had  been  reassured  by  their  unquestioning 
certainty.  Now  the  scene  in  the  office  had  strength- 
ened it  —  something  about  Esther  Maitland,  she  didn't 
know  what.  She  had  assured  herself  then  —  she  tried 
to  do  it  now  —  that  there  could  be  no  mistake,  they 
had  proofs,  the  girl  hadn't  been  able  to  explain  any- 
thing. But  she  could  not  argue  it  away;  it  persisted, 
stronger  than  thought,  power  or  will,  unescapable  like 
the  horror  of  a  dream. 

It  came  from  an  instinct  that  kept  whispering  deep 
down  in  the  recesses  of  her  being,  "  Chapman  couldn't 
have  done  it."  She  knew  him  better  than  the  others 
did,  the  vagaries  of  his  ugly  temper,  the  lines  his  weak- 
nesses ran  upon.  She  knew  him  through  and  through, 
to  what  lengths  anger  might  urge  him,  what  he  could 
do  when  aroused  and  what  he  never  could  do.  And 
trying  to  convince  herself  of  his  guilt,  marshaling  the 
facts  against  him,  going  over  them  point  by  point,  she 
couldn't  make  herself  believe  that  he  had  stolen  Bebita. 

And  if  he  hadn't,  then  where  was  she? 

This  was  the  hideous  thought,  pressing  in  upon  her 
239 


Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

recognition,  intrusive  as  Banquo's  ghost  and  as  terrible. 
She  writhed  under  its  torment,  twisting  and  turning  un- 
til her  clothes  were  wound  about  her  in  a  tangled  coil, 
moaning  as  her  imagination  touched  at  and  recoiled 
from  grisly  possibilities. 

She  was  lying  thus  when  the  door-bell  rang.  Glad 
of  any  interruption  she  sat  up,  and,  swinging  her  feet 
to  the  floor,  called  out  a  sharp  "  Come  in."  A  bell-boy 
entered  with  a  letter  which  he  presented  with  the  in- 
formation that  Mr.  Janney  had  ordered  all  mail  to  be 
brought  immediately  to  the  rooms.  The  letter  was 
for  her,  addressed  in  typewriting,  and  as  the  boy  with- 
drew she  rose,  heavy-eyed  and  heavy-headed,  and  tore 
open  the  envelope.  The  first  line  brought  a  thin, 
choked  cry  out  of  her,  and  then  she  stood  motionless, 
her  glance  devouring  the  words.  Dated  the  day  be- 
fore, typewritten  on  a  single  sheet  of  commercial  paper, 
it  ran  as  follows: 

"Mrs.  Suzanne  Price, 

DEAR  MADAM: 

We  have  your  little  girl.  She  is  safe  with  us  and  will  con- 
tinue to  be  if  you  act  in  good  faith  and  accede  to  our  de- 
mands. We  frankly  state  that  our  object  in  taking  her  was 
ransom  and  we  are  now  ready  to  enter  upon  negotiations  with 
you.  This,  however,  only  upon  certain  conditions.  All  trans- 
actions between  us  must  be  conducted  with  absolute  secrecy.  If 
any  member  of  your  family  is  told,  if  the  police  are  notified,  be 
assured  that  we  will  know  it,  and  that  it  will  react  upon  your 
child.  Let  it  be  clearly  understood  —  if  you  inform  against  us, 
if  you  make  an  attempt  to  trap  or  apprehend  us,  she  will  pay  the 

240 


Signed  "  Clansmen  " 


price.  We  hold  her  as  a  hostage;  her  fate  is  in  your  hands.  If, 
however,  you  know  of  a  person  in  no  wise  involved  or  connected 
with  you  or  your  family,  having  no  personal  interest  in  the  matter, 
and  of  whose  discretion  and  reliability  you  are  convinced,  we  are 
willing  to  deal  through  them.  Copy  the  form  below,  fill  in  blank 
spaces  with  name  and  address  and  insert  in  Daily  Record  per- 
sonals. 

(Xante) 

(Address) 

S.  O.  S. 

CLAXSMEX." 

Suzanne's  hand  holding  the  paper  dropped  to  her 
side  and  she  looked  about  the  room  with  eyes  vacant 
and  unseeing.  All  her  outward  forces  were  shocked  into 
temporary  suspension ;  for  a  moment  she  had  no  real- 
ization of  where  or  who  she  was.  The  letter  was  the 
only  fact  she  recognized  and  sentences  from  it  chased 
through  her  consciousness :  "  We  hold  her  as  a 
hostage,  her  fate  is  in  your  hands.  She  is  safe  with  us 
if  you  accede  to  our  demands."  She  saw  them  written 
on  the  walls,  they  boomed  in  her  ears  like  notes  of 
doom.  It  was  confirmation  of  that  instinct  she  had 
tried  to  smother;  like  the  wand  of  a  baleful  genii  it 
had  transformed  her  nightmare  fancies  into  sinister 
reality. 

She  felt  a  shriek  rising  to  her  lips  and  pressed  her 
hand  against  them.  Secrecy,  silence,  her  stunned  brain 
had  grasped  that  and  directed  her  restraining  hand. 
Then  the  one  deep  feeling  of  her  shallow  nature  called 

241 


Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

her  shattered  faculties  into  order.  Love  lent  her 
power,  steadied  her,  gave  her  the  will  to  act. 

She  sat  down  on  the  sofa  and  read  the  letter  again, 
slowly,  getting  its  full  significance.  For  the  first  time 
in  her  life  responsibility  was  cast  upon  her;  she  could 
throw  the  burden  on  no  one  else.  By  her  own  efforts, 
by  her  own  courage  and  initiative,  she  must  get  Bebita 
back.  She  whispered  it  over,  "  I  must  do  it.  I  must 
do  it  myself,"  then  fell  silent,  her  face  stony  in  its  ten- 
sion of  thought.  Suddenly  its  rigidity  broke;  in  an 
illuminating  flash  she  saw  the  first  step  clear,  and 
rising  ran  to  the  telephone.  The  person  she  called  up 
was  Larkin.  He  answered  himself  and  she  told  him 
she  wanted  to  see  him  on  a  matter  of  great  importance 
and  would  come  at  once  to  his  office. 

Fifteen  minutes  later,  her  face  hidden  by  a  chiffon 
veil,  her  rumpled  smartness  covered  with  a  silk  motor 
coat,  she  was  knocking  at  his  door. 

Mr.  Larkin's  office  was  cool  and  shady,  the  blinds  half 
lowered  to  keep  out  the  glare  of  the  afternoon  sun.  In 
the  midst  of  its  airy  neatness,  surrounded  by  an  im- 
posing array  of  desks,  card  cabinets,  typewriters  and 
files,  Mr.  Larkin  was  waiting  alone  for  his  important 
client. 

She  dropped  into  the  chair  he  set  for  her,  and,  push- 
ing up  her  veil,  revealed  a  countenance  so  bereft  of  the 
petulant  prettiness  he  knew,  that  he  started  and  stood 

242 


Signed  "  Clansmen  " 


gazing  in  open  concern.  The  sight  of  his  astonishment 
caused  the  tears  to  well  into  Suzanne's  eyes,  drowned 
and  sunken  by  past  floods,  and  her  story  to  break 
without  prelude  from  her  lips. 

Larkin's  surprise  at  her  appearance  gave  place  to 
a  tight-gripped  interest  when  he  grasped  the  main 
fact  of  her  narrative.  He  let  her  run  through  it  with- 
out interruption  nodding  now  and  then,  a  frowning 
sidelong  glance  on  her  face. 

When  she  had  finished  he  drew  a  deep  breath  and 
said: 

"  The  moment  I  saw  you,  I  knew  something  was 
wrong.  But  this  — "  he  raised  his  hands  and  let"  them 
drop  on  the  desk  — "  Good  Lord !  I  hadn't  an  idea  it 
was  anything  so  serious." 

But  she  hadn't  finished  —  the  worst,  the  thing  that 
had  brought  her  —  she  had  yet  to  tell.  And  she  be- 
gan about  the  letter  received  an  hour  ago.  At  that 
Larkin  forgot  his  sympathies,  was  the  detective  again, 
hardly  concealing  his  impatience  as  he  watched  her 
fumbling  at  the  cords  of  her  purse.  Finally  extracted 
and  given  to  him  he  read  it,  once  and  then  again,  Su- 
zanne eyeing  him  like  a  hungry  dog. 

"  Last  evening,"  he  muttered  after  a  scrutiny  of  the 
postmark,  "  Grand  Central  Station."  Then  he  rose, 
went  to  the  window  and,  jerking  up  the  blind,  held  the 
paper  against  the  light,  sniffed  at  it,  and  felt  its  texture 

243 


Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

between  his  thumb  and  finger.  Suzanne  saw  him  shake 
his  head,  her  avid  glance  following  him  as  he  came 
back  to  the  desk  and  studied  the  sheet  through  a  mag- 
nifying glass. 

"  Nothing  to  be  got  that  way,"  he  said.  "  Type- 
paper  —  impossible  to  trace.  No  amateur  business 
about  this." 

Suzanne's  voice  was  husky: 

"  Do  you  mean  it's  professional  people  —  a  gang?  " 

"  I  can't  say  exactly.  But  from  what  you  tell  me 
—  the  way  it  was  accomplished,  the  plan  of  action  — 
I  should  be  inclined  to  think  it  was  the  work  of  more 
than  one  person  —  possibly  a  group  —  who  had  ability 
and  experience." 

Suzanne,  clutching  at  the  corner  of  the  desk  with  a 
trembling  hand,  cried  in  her  misery: 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Larkin,  you  don't  think  they'll  hurt  her. 
They  wouldn't  dare  to  hurt  her?  " 

The  detective's  glance  was  kindly  but  grave: 

"  Mrs.  Price,  I'll  speak  frankly.  I  think  your  child 
is  in  the  hands  of  a  pretty  desperate  person  or  persons. 
But  I  have  no  apprehension  that  they'll  do  her  any 
harm.  They  don't  want  to  do  that  —  it's  too  danger- 
ous. What  they  might  do  if  their  plans  fail  is  a  thing 
we'll  not  consider  —  it'll  only  weaken  your  nerve.  And 
that's  what  you've  got  to  keep  hold  of.  You'll  get  her 
back  all  right,  but  you  must  be  cool  and  brave." 


Signed  fr  Clansmen  " 


"  I'll  be  anything ;  I'll  be  like  another  person.  I'll 
do  anything.  No  one  need  be  afraid  I'll  be  weak  or 
silly  now" 

"  Good  —  that's  the  way  to  talk.  Now  let  me  know 
a  little  about  the  way  the  situation  stands.  It's  odd 
I've  seen  nothing  about  this  in  the  papers  —  heard 
nothing.  Your  family  must  be  active  in  some  direc- 
tion. What  are  they  doing?  " 

A  sudden  color  burnt  in  her  wasted  cheeks. 

"  They  suspect  my  husband.  They  think  he  did  it 
—  to  —  to  —  get  square.  We'd  quarreled  —  sepa- 
rated —  and  he'd  made  threats." 

"  Ah,  yes,  yes,  I  see  —  kidnaped  his  own  child,  and 
they're  keeping  it  quiet.  I  understand  perfectly.  But 
you  didn't  believe  this  ?  " 

She  shook  her  head  and  bit  on  her  underlip  to  con- 
trol its  trembling. 

"  No  —  I  couldn't,  though  I  tried  to.  I  knew  he 
wouldn't  have  done  it  —  it's  not  —  it's  not  —  like  him. 
And  then  while  I  was  thinking  the  letter  came,  and  I 
knew,  no  matter  what  they  thought,  no  matter  what 
the  facts  were,  that  that  was  true." 

"  Urn,"  Larkin,  his  mouth  compressed,  nodded  in 
understanding.  "  You  would  know  better  than  any 
one  else.  In  these  matters  instinct  is  one  of  the  most 
important  factors."  He  was  silent  for  a  moment,  then 
looked  at  her,  a  glance  of  piercing  question.  "  Do  I 

245 


Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

understand  that  you  are  willing  to  enter  into  these 
negotiations?  " 

*'  Willing !  "  she  cried.  "  Why  should  I  be  here  if 
I  wasn't  willing?  " 

"  Yes,  yes,  exactly,  but  let  us  understand  one  an- 
other. What  I  mean  is  are  you  willing  —  realizing 
what  they  are  —  to  deal  with  them  on  their  own  terms? 
In  short,  pay  them  what  they  ask  and  let  them 

go?" 

"  Of  course."  She  almost  cried  it  out  in  her  effort 
to  make  him  comprehend  her  position.  "  That's  what 
I  want  to  do ;  that's  why  I  haven't  told  any  of  my  own 
people  and  won't.  I'd  have  gone  straight  to  my  mother 
with  this  but  I  knew  she  wouldn't  agree  to  it,  she'd 
get  the  police,  want  to  fight  them  and  bring  them  to 
justice." 

"  Could  you  be  relied  on  to  maintain  the  secrecy 
necessary  ?  " 

"  I  can  be  relied  on  for  anything.  Oh,  Mr.  Larkin, 
if  you  knew  what  I  feel  you  wouldn't  waste  time  ask- 
ing these  questions." 

He  answered  very  gently: 

"  Mrs.  Price,  I  appreciate  your  feelings  to  the  full, 
but  this  is  a  hazardous  undertaking.  You  don't  want 
to  rush  into  it  without  realizing  what  it  means.  There 
is  the  question  of  money  for  example  —  the  ransom. 
Your  family  is  known  for  its  wealth.  You  can  be 

246 


Signed  fe  Clansmen 


pretty  certain  that  the  parties  you're  dealing  with  will 
hold  the  child  for  a  large  sum." 

Suzanne  clasped  her  hands  on  her  breast  and  the 
tears,  brimming  in  her  eyes,  spilled  over,  falling  in  a 
trickle  down  her  cheeks. 

"  Oh,  what's  money  !  "  she  wailed.  "  I'd  give  all  the 
money  I  have,  I've  ever  had,  I  ever  thought  of  having, 
to  get  my  baby  back." 

Larkin  was  moved.  He  looked  away  from  that  piti- 
ful, quivering  face  and  his  voice  showed  a  slight  huski- 
ness  as  he  answered: 

"  Well,  that's  all  right,  Mrs.  Price  —  and  don't  take 
it  so  hard,  don't  let  your  fears  get  the  upper  hand. 
There's  no  harm  can  come  to  her;  it's  to  their  interest 
to  take  care  of  her.  If  we  do  our  part  cleverly,  follow 
their  instructions  and  keep  our  heads,  you'll  have  her 
back  in  no  time."  He  stopped,  arrested  by  a  sudden 
thought.  "  I  say  *  we,'  but  maybe  I'm  presupposing  too 
much.  Was  it  your  intention  to  ask  for  my  assist- 
ance ?  " 

She  dashed  her  tears  away  and  leaned  forward  in 
eager  urgence: 

"  Of  course  —  that's  why  I  came.  And  you  will  give 
it  —  you  will  ?  The  letter  says  it  has  to  be  some  one 
having  no  ties  or  interests  with  the  family  —  some  one 
I  could  trust.  I  couldn't  think  of  any  one  at  first,  and 
then  when  I  remembered  you  it  was  like  an  inspiration. 

247 


Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

Oh,  you  must  do  it  —  I'll  pay  you  anything  if  you 
will." 

Larkin's  face  satisfied  her ;  she  dropped  back  with  a 
moan  of  relief. 

"  I'll  undertake  it  willingly  —  not  only  to  give  you 
any  help  I  can,  but  because  it  will  be  a  good  thing  for 
me.  Don't  be  shocked  at  my  plain  speaking,  but  I 
want  to  be  frank  and  straight  with  you.  I'm  not 
referring  to  pay  —  we  can  arrange  about  that  later  — 
it's  work  done  for  the  Janney  family,  successful  work. 
And  with  your  cooperation,  Mrs.  Price,  this  is  going  to 
be  successful.  Now  let's  get  to  business."  He  picked 
up  the  letter  and  glanced  over  it.  "  Headed  *  Clans- 
men '  and  signed  '  S.  O.  S.'  I'll  copy  it,  insert  my  name 
and  address,  and  have  it  in  to-morrow's  Daily  Record. 
Then  we'll  see  what  happens." 

He  smiled  at  her,  reassuring  and  kindly.  There  was 
no  response  in  her  tragic  face. 

"  It  may  be  days  before  they  answer,"  she  murmured. 

But  he  was  determined  to  uphold  her  fainting  spirit. 

"  I  think  not.  They  want  to  end  this  thing  as 
quickly  as  they  can  —  get  their  loot  and  go.  You've 
got  to  remember  that  their  position  is  terribly  danger- 
ous and  at  the  first  sign  from  us  they'll  get  busy." 

She  rose,  took  the  letter  and  put  it  in  her  purse: 

"  I  hope  to  Heaven  you're  right.  It's  so  awful  to 
wait." 

£48 


Signed  "  Clansmen 


"  I  don't  think  you'll  have  to.  They'll  see  our  an- 
swer to-morrow  morning  and  I'll  expect  a  move  from 
them  by  that  evening  or  the  next  day.  If  they  com- 
municate with  me,  I'll  let  you  know  at  once,  and  if  you 
hear,  do  the  same  by  me.  It's  going  to  be  all  right. 
Keep  up  your  courage  and  remember  —  not  a  word 
or  a  sign  to  any  one." 

"  Oh,  I  know,"  she  said,  drawing  down  her  veil  with 
limp  hands,  "  you  needn't  be  afraid  I'll  spoil  it.  You 
thought  me  a  fool,  perhaps,  when  I  first  consulted 
you,  and  I  was,  bothering  about  things  that  didn't  mat- 
ter—  jewels!  There  isn't  one  of  us  that  hasn't  for- 
gotten all  about  them  now.  Good-by.  No,  don't  come 
out  with  me.  I  have  a  taxi  waiting." 


249 


CHAPTER  XXII 

SUZANNE    FINDS    A    FRIEND 

ON  Monday  evening  Ferguson  heard  from  Molly 
of  the  scene  in  the  Whitney  office.  He  was 
incredulous  and  enraged,  refusing  to  accept 
what  she  insisted  were  irrefutable  proofs  of  Esther's 
guilt. 

"  What  do  I  care  about  your  'phone  messages  and 
your  suppositions ! "  he  had  almost  shouted  at  her. 
"  What  do  I  care  about  what  you  think.  You  say  she 
didn't  answer  the  charges  —  she  did,  she  denied  them. 
That's  enough  for  me." 

There  was  no  use  arguing  with  him,  he  was  beyond 
reason.  She  lapsed  into  silence,  letting  him  rage  on, 
seething  in  his  wrath  at  the  Janneys,  the  Whitneys, 
herself.  When  he  tried  to  find  out  where  Esther  was, 
she  was  obdurate  —  that  she  couldn't  tell  him.  All 
the  satisfaction  he  got  was  that  Miss  Maitland  was 
not  under  arrest,  that  she  was  "  put  away  somewhere  " 
and  had  agreed  to  the  arrangement.  He  left,  too 
angry  for  good-nights,  with  a  last  scattering  of  male- 

250 


Suzanne  Finds  a  Friend 


dictions,  leaping  down  the  steps  and  swinging  off  across 
the  garden. 

The  next  morning  he  telephoned  in  to  the  St.  Boniface 
Hotel  and  heard  that  the  Janney  party  were  out.  Then 
he  tried  the  Whitney  office,  got  George  on  the  wire, 
and  was  told  brusquely  that  Miss  Maitland's  where- 
abouts could  not  be  divulged  to  any  one.  He  spent 
the  rest  of  the  day  in  a  state  of  morose  disquiet,  deny- 
ing himself  to  visitors,  short  and  surly  with  his  servants. 
Willitts  was  solicitous,  inquired  after  his  health  and 
was  told  to  go  to  the  devil.  In  the  kitchen  quarters 
they  talked  about  his  queer  behavior;  the  butler  was 
afraid  he'd  had  "  a  touch  of  sun." 

Wednesday  wore  through  to  the  early  afternoon  and 
his  inaction  became  unendurable.  He  decided  to  go 
into  town,  look  up  the  Janneys  and  force  them  to  tell 
him  where  Esther  was.  He  laid  upon  his  spirit  a  cau- 
tioning charge  of  self-control;  he  must  keep  his  head 
and  his  temper,  use  strategy  before  coercion.  He  had 
no  idea  of  what  he  intended  doing  when  he  did  find  her, 
but  the  idea  of  getting  to  her,  seeing  her,  championing 
her,  transformed  his  moody  restlessness  into  a  savage 
energy.  His  servants  flew  before  his  commands ;  in 
the  garage  the  chauffeur  muttered  angrily  as  orders  to 
hurry  were  shouted  at  him  from  the  drive. 

Tuesday  had  been  a  day  of  strain  for  the  Janneys. 
According  to  the  telephone  message,  that  night  Chap- 

251 


Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

man  was  to  move  the  child  from  the  city.  He  had  been 
under  a  close  surveillance  for  the  two  preceding  days, 
and  every  depot  and  ferry  housed  watching  detectives. 
Hope  ran  high  until  after  midnight  when  reports  and 
'phone  messages  came  dropping  in  upon  the  group  con- 
gregated in  the  library  of  the  Whitney  house.  No 
child  resembling  Bebita  had  left  the  city  at  any  of  the 
guarded  points.  Chapman  had  been  in  his  office  all 
day,  had  dined  at  a  hotel  and  afterward  had  gone  to 
his  rooms  and  remained  there.  The  plan  of  moving 
her  had  either  been  abandoned  or  had  been  intrusted 
to  unknown  parties  who  had  taken  her  by  motor 
through  the  city's  northern  end. 

On  Wednesday  morning  a  consultation  had  been  held 
at  the  Whitney  office.  This  had  been  stormy,  develop- 
ing the  first  disagreements  in  what  had  been  a  unity  of 
opinion.  Mr.  Janney  was  for  going  to  Chapman  and 
demanding  the  child  and  was  seconded  by  the  elder 
Whitney.  Mrs.  Janney  was  in  opposition.  She  had  no 
fear  for  Bebita's  welfare  —  Chapman  could  be  trusted 
to  care  for  her  —  and  maintained  that  a  direct  appeal 
to  him  would  be  an  admission  of  weakness  and  place 
them  at  his  mercy.  In  her  opinion  he  would  threaten 
exposure  —  he  was  shameless  —  or  make  an  offer  of  a 
financial  settlement.  George  agreed  with  her ;  from  the 
start  he  had  thought  Chapman  was  actuated  less  by  a 
desire  for  vengeance  than  a  hope  of  gain.  Mrs.  Jan- 

252 


Suzanne  Finds  a  Friend 


ney,  thus  backed  up,  became  adamant.  She  would  have 
no  dealings  with  him,  would  run  him  to  earth,  and  when 
he  was  caught,  crush  and  ruin  him. 

Suzanne  had  listened  to  it  all  very  silent  and  taking 
neither  side.  Her  hunted  air  was  set  down  to  mental 
strain  and  she  was  allowed  to  remain  an  unconsulted 
spectator,  treated  by  everybody  with  subdued  gentle- 
ness. Back  in  the  hotel,  Mrs.  Janney  had  suggested  a 
doctor,  but  her  querulous  pleadings  to  be  let  alone  had 
conquered,  and  the  old  people  had  gone  for  their  after- 
noon drive,  leaving  her  in  the  curtained  quietness  of  the 
sitting  room. 

The  door  was  hardly  shut  on  them  when  she  drew  out 
of  her  belt  a  letter.  She  had  found  it  in  her  room  on 
her  return  from  the  office  and  had  read  it  there  before 
lunch.  It  was  a  prompter  answer  than  she  had  dared 
to  hope  for. 

"Mrs.  Suzanne  Price, 
DEAK  MADAM: 

In  answer  to  your  ad.  we  would  say  that  we  are  willing  to  deal 
through  the  agent  you  name.  We  take  your  word  for  it  that  he 
is  to  be  trusted,  that  both  you  and  he  understand  any  attempt 
to  betray  us  will  be  visited  on  your  child. 

Remember  Charley  Ross! 

The  sum  necessary  for  her  release  will  be  thirty  thousand  dol- 
lars. On  payment  of  this  we  will  deliver  her  over  at  a  time  and 
place  to  be  specified  later.  If  you  agree  to  our  terms  insert  fol- 
lowing ad.  in  the  Daily  Record.  'John  —  O.  K.  See  you  later. 
Mary.' 

(Signed)  CLAXSMEK." 

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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

On  the  second  perusal  of  this  ominous  document  Su- 
zanne felt  the  strangling  rush  of  dread,  the  breathless 
contraction  of  the  heart,  that  had  seized  her  when  she 
first  read  it.  Horrors  had  piled  on  horrors  —  as  she 
had  risen  to  each  new  step  of  her  progress  up  this  Via 
Dolorosa,  another  more  fearful  and  unsurmountable 
had  faced  her.  When  she  had  spoken  to  Larkin  of  the 
money  she  had  never  thought  of  it,  how  much  it  might 
be,  how  she  was  to  get  it.  Now,  with  a  stunning  im- 
pact, she  was  brought  against  the  appalling  fact  that 
she  had  none  of  her  own  and  did  not  dare  ask  her 
mother  for  any. 

There  was  no  use  in  lies ;  she  had  lied  too  much  and 
too  diversely  to  be  believed.  She  would  have  to  tell 
what  it  was  for,  and  she  knew  the  mood  in  which  her 
mother  would  meet  the  demand.  Money  would  be  forth- 
coming —  any  amount  —  but  Mrs.  Janney,  with  her 
iron  nerve  and  her  implacable  spirit,  would  never  con- 
sent to  a  tame  submission.  Suzanne  knew  that  her 
fortune  and  her  energies  would  be  spent  in  an  effort  to 
apprehend  the  criminals,  and  Suzanne  had  not  the 
courage  to  take  a  chance.  All  she  wanted  was  Bebita, 
back  in  her  arms  again,  the  fiends  who  had  taken  her 
could  go  free. 

She  sat  down,  pushing  the  damp  hair  from  her  fore- 
head and  trying  to  think.  One  fact  stood  out  in  the 
midst  of  her  blind,  confused  suffering.  She  could  not 

254 


Suzanne  Finds  a  Friend 


go  to  Larkin  till  she  had  the  thirty  thousand  dollars. 
Every  moment  she  sat  there  was  a  moment  lost,  a  mo- 
ment added  to  Bebita's  term  of  imprisonment.  She 
stared  about  the  room,  the  gleam  of  her  shifting  eyes, 
the  rise  and  fall  of  her  breast,  the  only  movements  in 
her  stone-still  figure. 

Suddenly,  piercing  her  tense  preoccupation  with  a 
buzzing  note,  came  the  sound  of  the  telephone.  It  made 
her  jump,  then  mechanically,  hardly  conscious  of  her 
action,  she  rose  to  answer  it.  A  woman's  voice,  lan- 
guidly nasal,  came  along  the  wire : 

"  Mr.  Richard  Ferguson  is  calling." 

"  Send  him  up,"  she  gasped  and  fumbled  back  the 
receiver  with  a  shaking  hand.  With  the  other  she 
steadied  herself  against  the  wall ;  the  room  had  swung 
for  a  moment,  blurred  before  her  vision.  She  closed 
her  eyes  and  breathed  out  her  relief  in  a  moaning  exhala- 
tion. It  was  like  an  answer  to  prayer,  like  the  finger 
of  God. 

Of  course  Dick  was  the  person  —  Dick  who  could  al- 
ways be  trusted,  who  could  always  understand.  He 
would  give  it  and  say  nothing;  she  could  make  him. 
He  was  not  like  the  others  —  he  would  sympathize, 
would  agree  with  her,  in  trouble  he  was  a  rock  to  cling 
to.  A  broken  series  of  answers  to  unput  questions 
coursed  through  her  head ;  she  could  go  to  Larkin  now 
! —  she  needn't  tell  him  how  she'd  got  it,  he  thought 

255 


Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

she  was  rich  —  after  it  was  all  over  her  mother  would 
pay  Dick  back  —  in  a  few  days  she'd  have  Bebita,  the 
kidnapers  would  have  made  their  escape  —  and  it 
would  be  all  right,  all  right,  all  right ! 

Ferguson  had  come  up,  grim-visaged,  steeled  for 
battle,  but  when  he  saw  her  his  fighting  spirit  died. 
There  was  nothing  left  of  her  but  a  blighted  shadow, 
the  cloud  of  golden  hair  crowning  in  gay  mockery  her 
drawn  and  haggard  face.  Before  he  could  speak  she 
made  a  clutch  at  his  arm,  drawing  him  into  the  room, 
babbling  a  broken  greeting  about  wanting  him,  wanting 
his  help.  He  put  his  hand  on  hers  and  felt  it  trembling ; 
he  would  not  have  been  surprised  if  she  had  dropped  un- 
conscious at  his  feet. 

"  Lord,  Suzanne,  you  don't  want  to  take  it  this  way," 
he  soothed,  guiding  her  to  the  sofa.  "  You  must  get 
hold  of  yourself;  you've  been  brooding  too  much.  Of 
course  I'll  help  you  —  anything  I  can  do  —  and  we'll 
get  her  back,  it'll  be  only  a  few  days."  He  didn't  know 
what  to  say,  he  was  so  sorry  for  her. 

She  was  past  parleys  and  preliminaries,  past  coquetry 
and  artifice.  The  whole  of  her  had  resolved  itself  into 
one  raw  longing,  and  before  they  were  seated  on  the 
sofa,  she  had  broken  into  her  story.  He  didn't  at 
first  believe  her,  thought  grief  had  unsettled  her  brain, 
but  when  she  thrust  the  two  letters  into  his  hand  all 
doubts  left  him. 

056 


Suzanne  Finds  a  Friend 


He  read  them  slowly,  word  by  word,  then  turned  upon 
her  a  face  so  charged  and  vitalized  with  a  fierce  in- 
terest that,  had  she  been  able  to  see  beyond  the  circle 
of  her  own  pain,  she  would  have  wondered.  If  he  for- 
got to  ask  for  Esther's  hiding  place  it  was  because  the 
larger  matter  of  her  vindication  had  swept  all  else 
from  his  mind.  The  proofs  of  her  innocence  were  in 
his  hands;  he  did  not  for  a  moment  doubt  their  genu- 
ineness. It  was  what  he  had  thought  from  the 
first. 

His  manner  changed  from  that  of  the  sympathizing 
friend  to  one  of  stern  authority.  He  shot  questions 
at  her,  tabulating  her  answers,  discarding  cumbering 
detail,  seizing  on  the  important  fact  and  separating 
it  from  the  jumble  of  confused  impressions  and  fancies 
that  she  poured  out.  A  few  inquiries  set  Larkin's  posi- 
tion clear  before  him.  The  money  he  dismissed  with  a 
curt  sentence;  of  course  he  would  give  it,  she  wasn't 
to  think  of  that  any  more. 

"  Thank  heaven  you  decided  on  me,"  he  said.  "  I'll 
straighten  this  out  for  you  and  I'll  do  it  quick." 

She  was  ready  to  take  fright  at  anything  and  his 
eagerness  scared  her. 

"  But  you'll  not  do  anything  they  don't  want  ? 
You'll  not  tell  the  police  or  try  to  catch  them?  " 

He  had  seen  from  the  start  that  she  was  dominated 
.by  terror,  as  the  kidnapers  had  intended  she  should  be : 

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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

and  seeing  this  had  recognized  her  as  a  negligible  factor. 
To  keep  her  quiet,  soothe  her  fears,  and  employ  her 
services  just  so  far  as  they  were  helpful  was  what  he 
had  to  do  with  her.  What  he  had  to  do  without  her 
was  shaping  itself  in  his  mind. 

"  You  can  rely  on  me.  I  won't  make  any  breaks. 
And  you  have  to  be  careful,  not  a  word  about  me  to 
this  man  Larkin.  He  must  think  the  money  is  yours." 

She  assured  him  of  her  discretion  and  he  felt  he 
could  trust  her  that  far. 

"  Now  listen,"  he  said  slowly  and  impressively  as  if 
he  was  speaking  to  a  child,  "  we've  both  got  to  go  very 
charily.  A  good  deal  of  the  threat-stuff  in  these  letters 
is  bluff,  but  also  men  who  would  undertake  an  enter- 
prise of  this  kind  are  pretty  tough  customers  and  we 
don't  want  to  take  any  risks.  When  I'm  gone  you 
drive  over  to  Larkin's,  tell  him  you  have  the  money  for 
the  ransom,  and  to  put  in  the  ad.  As  soon  as  either  you 
or  he  get  an  answer  let  me  know.  I'll  be  at  Council 
Oaks;  I'll  go  back  there  now.  It's  probable  you're 
watched  and  if  they  saw  me  hanging  about  here  they 
might  think  I  was  in  the  game  and  take  fright.  Do 
you  understand?  " 

She  nodded: 

"  Yes,  you've  put  some  courage  into  me.  I  was 
ready  to  die  when  you  came  in." 

"  Well,  that's  over  now.  What  you've  got  to  do  is 
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Suzanne  Finds  a  Friend 


to  follow  my  instructions,  keep  your  nerve  and  have 
a  little  patience." 

He  smiled  down  at  her  as  she  sat,  a  huddled  heap  of 
finery,  on  the  edge  of  the  sofa.  She  tried  to  return 
the  smile,  a  grimace  of  the  lips  that  did  not  touch  her 
somber  eyes.  No  man,  least  of  all  Dick  Ferguson,  could 
have  been  angry  with  her. 

"  She  was  crazy,"  he  said  to  himself  as  he  walked 
down  the  hall.  "  They  were  all  crazy  and  I  guess  they 
had  enough  to  make  them  so.  I'll  get  the  child  back, 
and  when  I  do,  I'll  make  them  bite  the  dust  before  my 
girl." 

Several  people  who  knew  him  saw  Dick  Ferguson 
driving  his  black  car  down  Fifth  Avenue  late  that 
afternoon.  He  saw  none  of  them,  steering  his  way 
through  the  traffic,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  vista  in  front. 
He  stopped  at  Delmonico's  for  an  early  dinner,  telling 
the  waiter  to  bring  him  anything  that  was  ready,  then 
sat  with  frowning  brows  staring  at  his  plate.  Here 
again  were  people  who  knew  him  and  wondered  at  his 
gloomy  abstraction  —  not  a  bit  like  Ferguson,  must 
have  something  on  his  mind. 

Night  was  falling  as  he  crossed  the  Queensborough 
bridge,  a  smoldering  glow  along  the  west  glazing  the 
surface  of  the  river.  When  he  left  the  straggling  out- 
skirts of  Brooklyn  and  reached  the  open  country  the 
dark  had  come,  deep  and  velvety,  a  few  bright  star 

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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

points  pricking  through  the  cope  of  the  sky.  He  low- 
ered his  speed,  his  glance  roving  ahead  to  the  road  and 
its  edging  grasses,  startlingly  clear  under  the  radiance 
of  his  lamps. 

Round  him  the  country  brooded  in  its  rest,  silence 
lying  on  the  pale  surface  of  fields,  on  the  black  indis- 
tinctness of  trees.  Here  and  there  the  lights  of  farms 
shone,  caught  and  lost  through  shielding  boughs,  and 
the  clustered  sparklings  of  villages.  The  air  was  heavy 
with  scents,  the  breath  of  clover  knee-high  in  the  grass, 
grain  still  giving  off  the  warmth  of  the  afternoon  sun, 
and  the  delicate  sweetness  of  the  wild  grape  draped 
over  the  roadside  trees.  All  this  night  loveliness  in  its 
fragrant  quietness,  its  rich  and  penetrating  beauty,, 
reminded  him  of  her.  He  looked  up  at  the  sky,  and 
its  calm  and  steadfast  splendor  came  to  him  with  a  new 
meaning.  She  was  related  to  it  all,  in  tune  with  the 
eternal  harmonies,  part  of  everything  that  was  stain- 
less and  noble  and  pure.  And  he  would  show  the  world 
that  she  was,  clear  her  of  every  spot,  place  her  where 
she  would  be  as  far  from  suspicion,  as  serenely  above 
the  meanness  of  her  accusers,  as  the  stars  in  the  crystal 
depths  of  the  sky. 

When  he  reached  Council  Oaks  he  had  a  vision  of 
her,  belonging  there,  a  piece  of  its  life.  He  saw  a  fu- 
ture, when,  coming  back  like  this  to  its  friendly  doors, 
she  would  be  waiting  on  the  balcony  to  greet  him.. 

260 


Suzanne  Finds  a  Friend 


There  was  no  one  there  now;  the  house  was  still,  its 
lights  shining  across  the  pebbled  drive.  Obsessed  by 
his  thoughts,  he  jumped  out,  and  leaving  the  car  at 
the  steps,  entered.  From  the  kitchen  wing  he  could 
hear  the  servants'  voices  raised  in  cheerful  clamor. 
Crossing  the  hall,  he  had  a  glimpse  through  the  din- 
ing room  door  of  the  table,  set  and  waiting  for  him, 
two  lamps  flanking  his  place.  He  had  no  mind  for 
food  and  went  upstairs,  dreams  still  holding  him.  In 
his  room  he  switched  on  the  lights  and  his  vacant  glance, 
sweeping  the  bureau,  brought  up  on  the  box  with 
the  crystal  lid. 

In  his  mind  the  robbery  had  faded  into  a  background 
of  inconsequential  things.  It  had  become  a  side  issue, 
a  thread  in  the  tangled  skein  he  had  pledged  himself 
to  unravel.  When  Molly  had  told  him  of  the  evidence 
against  Esther  his  interest  had  centered  on  the  charge 
of  kidnaping  —  the  monstrous  and  unbelievable  charge 
of  which  she  almost  stood  convicted.  Even  now,  as  he 
looked  at  the  box  and  remembered  what  he  had  hidden 
there,  it  came  to  his  memory  not  as  another  weapon 
to  be  used  in  her  defense,  but  as  a  souvenir  of  the  mo- 
ment when  his  present  passion  had  flamed  into  life. 
A  picture  rose  of  that  night,  the  silver  moon  spatter- 
ings,  her  hand,  white  in  the  white  light,  with  the  band 
on  its  third  finger.  He  opened  the  box  to  take  it  out 
—  it  was  not  there. 

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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

He  had  seen  it  a  few  days  before,  was  certain  he  had, 
shook  up  the  contents,  then  overturned  the  box,  strew- 
ing the  studs  and  pins  on  the  bureau.  But  it  was 
fruitless  —  the  band,  crushed  and  flattened  as  he  re- 
membered it,  was  gone.  He  muttered  an  angry  phrase, 
its  loss  came  as  a  jar  on  the  exaltation  of  his  mood. 
Then  a  soft  step  on  the  staircase  caught  his  ear,  and 
looking  up  he  saw  Willitts'  head  rise  into  view.  The 
man  came  down  the  passage  and  spoke  with  his  cus- 
tomary quiet  deference: 

"  I  saw  the  car  outside,  sir,  and  knew  you'd  come 
back.  Would  you  like  dinner  —  the  cook  says  she  can 
have  it  ready  in  a  minute?  " 

"  No,"  Ferguson's  voice  was  short,  "  I  dined  in  town. 
Look  here,  I've  lost  something — "  he  pointed  to  the 
scattered  jewelry  — "  I  had  a  cigar  band  in  that  box 
and  it's  gone.  Did  you  see  it  ?  " 

Willitts  looked  at  the  box  and  shook  his  head: 

"No,  sir.  A  cigar  band,  a  thing  made  of  paper?  " 
There  was  the  faintest  suggestion  of  surprise  in  his 
voice. 

"  Yes,  you  must  have  seen  it.  It  was  there  a  few 
days  ago,  underneath  all  that  truck  —  I  saw  it  myself." 

The  man  again  shook  his  head  and,  moving  to  the 
bureau,  began  to  shift  the  toilet  articles  and  look  among 
them. 

"  I'm  afraid  I  didn't  see  it,  sir,  or  if  I  did  I  didn't 
262 


Suzanne  Finds  a  Friend 


notice.     Maybe    it's    got    strayed    away    somewhere." 

He  continued  his  search,  Ferguson  watching  him  with 
moody  irritation: 

"  What  the  devil  could  have  happened  to  it?  I 
put  it  in  there  myself,  put  it  in  that  particular  place  for 
safekeeping." 

Willitts,  feeling  about  the  bureau  with  careful  fingers, 
said: 

"  Was  it  of  any  value,  sir?  " 

"  Yes,"  Ferguson  having  little  hope  of  finding  it 
turned  away  and  threw  himself  into  a  chair,  "  it  was 
of  great  value.  I  wouldn't  have  lost  it  for  anything. 
It  was  evidence  — "  he  stopped,  growling  a  smothered 
"  Damn."  He  had  said  enough ;  he  didn't  want  the 
servants  chattering. 

"  I'm  very  sorry,  sir,  but  it  doesn't  seem  to  be  here. 
Perhaps  the  chambermaid  threw  it  away,  thinking  it 
had  got  in  the  box  my  mistake." 

"  I  daresay  —  it  sounds  likely.  I  wish  the  people 
in  this  house  would  let  my  room  alone,  control  their 
mad  desire  for  neatness  and  leave  things  where  I  put 
them.  Have  the  car  taken  to  the  garage,  I'm  not 
coming  down  again.  If  any  one  calls  up  I'm  out. 
Good-night." 

"Good-night,  sir,"  said  Willitts,  and  softly  with- 
drew. 


263 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

MOLLY'S  STORY 

AFTER  that  Monday  night  when  he  went  off  in 
a  rage,  Ferguson  didn't  show  up  at  Grass- 
lands for  several  days  and  I  had  the  place  to 
myself  and  all  the  time  I  wanted.  Believe  me,  I  wanted 
a  lot  and  made  use  of  it.  While  the  others  were  con- 
centrating on  the  kidnaping  —  the  big  thing  that  had 
absorbed  all  their  interest  —  I  went  back  to  the  job  I 
was  engaged  for,  the  robbery.  And  I  went  back  with 
a  fresh  eye,  the  old  idea  cleared  out  of  my  head  by 
Mrs.  Price's  confession. 

She'd  explained  the  light,  the  light  by  the  safe  at 
one-thirty.  With  that  out  of  the  way,  I  could  get  busy 
on  the  cigar  band.  I  was  just  aching  to  do  it,  for,  as 
I'd  told  Ferguson,  it  was  an  A  1  starting  point.  Given 
that,  there's  nothing  more  exciting  in  the  world  than 
tracking  up  from  it,  following  different  leads,  seeing 
if  they'll  dovetail,  putting  bits  together  like  a  picture 
puzzle. 

So  I  started  in  and  for  two  days  collected  data, 
ferreted  into  the  movements  of  every  person  on  the 

264, 


Molly's  Story 


place,  gossiped  round  in  the  village,  picked  up  a  bit 
here  and  a  scrap  there,  and  made  notes  at  night  in 
my  room.  I  broke  down  Dixon's  dignity  and  had  a 
long  talk  with  him ;  I  got  Ellen  to  show  me  how  to  knit 
a  sweater  and  before  I'd  learnt  had  her  inside  out.  I 
spent  two  hours  and  broke  my  best  scissors  spoiling  the 
lock  of  the  bookcase  in  my  room  and  had  Isaac  up  to 
try  keys  on  it.  When  I  was  done  I  knew  the  move- 
ments of  everybody  in  the  house  on  the  night  of  July 
seventh  as  if  I'd  personally  conducted  each  one  through 
that  important  and  exciting  evening. 

It  wasn't  love  of  the  work  alone,  or  the  feeling  that 
I  ought  to  earn  my  salary,  that  pushed  me  on.  There 
was  something  else  —  I  wanted  to  clear  Esther  Mait- 
land.  I  wanted  it  bad.  I  kept  thinking  of  her  eyes 
looking  at  me  when  I  gave  her  the  drink  of  water  and 
it  made  me  sort  of  sick.  In  my  thoughts  I  kept  telling 
my  husband  about  it,  and  I  always  tried  to  make  out 
I'd  acted  very  smart  and  some  way  or  other  I  knew  he 
wouldn't  think  so.  It  wasn't  that  I  felt  guilty  —  I'd 
done  nothing  but  what  I  was  hired  for  —  but  there's  a 
meanness  about  beating  a  person  down,  there's  a  mean- 
ness about  staring  into  their  white,  twisted  face  and 
saying,  "  Ha  —  Ha  —  you're  cornered  and  I  did  it !  " 
You  have  to  be  awfully  good  yourself  to  do  that  sort  of 
thing. 

Thursday  morning  I'd  got  all  I  could  and  with  my 
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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

notes  and  my  fountain  pen  I  went  out  on  the  side  piazza 
by  Miss  Maitland's  study;  there  was  a  table  there  and 
it  was  quiet  and  secluded.  So  I  fixed  everything  con- 
venient and  set  to  work.  Taking  the  cigar  band  as 
the  central  point  I  built  up  from  it  something  like  this : 

It  had  been  dropped  by  a  man  —  so  few  women  smoke 
cigars  you  could  put  that  down  as  certain.  It  had 
been  dropped  between  half-past  eight  when  the  storm 
stopped  and  half-past  ten  when  Miss  Maitland  found 
it.  The  man  could  not  be  Mr.  Janney  who  had  driven 
both  ways,  nor  Dixon  or  Isaac  who  had  walked  to  the 
village  by  the  road  and  come  back  the  same  route.  It 
couldn't  have  been  Otto  the  chauffeur  as  he  had  stayed 
at  Ferguson's  garage  visiting  there  with  Ferguson's 
men.  The  head  gardener  had  gone  to  the  movies  with 
the  other  Grasslands  servants,  and  the  under  gardeners 
had  been  in  their  own  homes  in  the  village  as  I  had 
taken  pains  to  find  out.  Therefore  it  was  no  man 
living  on  the  place  at  that  time. 

But  that  it  was  some  one  who  was  familiar  with  the 
house  and  its  interior  workings  was  proved  by  two 
facts :  —  that  the  dogs,  heard  to  start  barking,  had 
suddenly  quieted  down,  and  that  a  rose  from  Miss  Mait- 
land's  dress  had  been  found  inside  the  safe. 

An  expert  burglar  could  have  got  round  all  the  rest, 
had  a  key  to  the  front  door,  worked  out  the  combina- 
tion —  the  house  was  virtually  empty  for  over  two 

266 


Molly's  Story 


hours  —  it  was  known  that  the  family  and  servants 
were  out.  But  the  most  expert  burglar  in  the  world 
couldn't  have  controlled  those  dogs  —  Mrs.  Price's  Air- 
dale  was  as  savage  to  strangers  as  a  wolf  and  had  a 
bark  on  it  like  a  steam  calliope. 

The  rose  figured  as  a  proof  this  way:  It  had  been 
put  inside  the  safe  to  throw  suspicion  on  Miss  Maitland, 
the  thief  was  aware  that  she  knew  the  combination. 
This  would  argue  that  he  was  acquainted  with  the 
habits  of  the  household.  All  social  secretaries  are  not 
given  the  leeway  Miss  Maitland  was ;  all  social  secre- 
taries aren't  given  the  combination  of  a  safe  where  two 
hundred  thousand  dollars'  worth  of  jewels  are  kept. 
The  man  knew  she  had  it,  and  tried  to  fix  the  guilt  on 
her.  Where  his  plan  slipped  up  was  Mrs.  Price  com- 
ing later,  finding  the  rose,  salting  it  down  in  a  piece  of 
tissue  paper,  and,  for  some  reason  of  her  own,  not  say- 
ing a  word  about  it. 

How  did  he  get  the  rose  ?  As  far  as  I  could  see  there 
was  just  one  way.  Esther  Maitland  had  spent  part  of 
the  afternoon  of  July  the  seventh  altering  her  evening 
dress.  Ellen  had  pinned  it  up  on  her  and  she'd  taken 
the  waist  down  to  her  study  to  sew  on  as  her  room  was 
too  hot.  When  she'd  gone  upstairs  again  —  it  was 
Ellen  who  gave  me  all  this  —  she'd  left  part  of  the 
trimming  on  the  desk.  The  next  morning  the  parlor 
maid  had  given  it  to  Ellen  —  all  cut  and  picked  apart, 

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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

some  of  the  roses  loose  in  a  cardboard  box  —  to  put 
in  Miss  Maitland's  room.  It  had  lain  on  the  desk  all 
night  and,  in  my  opinion,  the  thief  had  either  known  it 
was  there  or  found  it,  taken  the  rose,  and  made  his 
"  plant  "  with  it. 

Now  one  man  who  would  be  familiar  to  the  dogs 
and  might  know  Miss  Maitland's  privileges  and  habits, 
was  Chapman  Price.  But  it  wasn't  he,  for  at  nine- 
thirty,  the  hour  when  the  thief  was  busy,  Mr.  Price 
was  crossing  the  Queensborough  bridge,  headed  for  New 
York.  And  anyway,  if  he  hadn't  been,  you  couldn't 
suspect  him  of  trying  to  lay  the  blame  on  the  girl  who 
was  his  partner.  No  —  Chapman  Price  was  wiped  off 
the  map  with  all  the  rest  of  the  Grasslands  crowd. 

When  I'd  got  this  far  I  sat  biting  my  pen  handle  and 
sizing  it  up.  A  thief,  professional,  had  taken  the 
jewels.  He  was  some  one  unknown,  having  no  con- 
nection with  Mr.  Price  or  Miss  Maitland.  The  two 
crimes  that  had  nearly  shaken  the  Janney  family  off 
its  throne  had  been  committed  by  different  parties.  I 
was  as  sure  of  that  as  that  the  sun  would  rise  to- 
morrow. 

After  dinner  that  evening  I  went  out  on  the  balcony 
and  sat  there,  turning  it  all  over  in  my  head,  and  look- 
ing at  the  woods,  black-edged  and  solid  against  the 
night  sky.  It  was  very  still,  not  a  breath,  and  pres- 
ently, off  across  the  garden,  I  heard  the  gravel  crunch 

268 


under  a  foot,  a  soft  padding  on  the  grass,  and  then  a 
long,  lean  figure  came  into  the  brightness  that  shot 
out  across  the  drive  from  the  hall  behind  me  —  Fergu- 
son. 

He  dropped  down  on  the  top  step,  settled  his  back 
against  one  of  the  roof  posts,  and  took  out  a  cigarette 
case.  He  was  right  where  the  light  shone  on  him,  and 
I  could  see  he  had  a  serious,  glum  look  which  made  me 
think  he  still  "  had  a  mad  on  me  "  as  they  say  on  the 
east  side.  That  didn't  trouble  me ;  people  getting  mad 
when  they've  a  reason  to  never  does,  and  he'd  reason 
enough,  poor  dear. 

Puffing  out  a  long  shoot  of  smoke,  he  said: 

"  I've  come  over  to  speak  to  you  about  that  idea 
of  mine  —  that  cigar  band  I  told  you  about." 

"  Oh,"  I  answered,  "  you've  got  round  to  that,  have 
you?  " 

"  I  have,  or  perhaps  you  might  say  half  way  around." 

"  Well,  I'm  the  whole  way.  I've  spent  three  days 
getting  there." 

"  I  thought  you'd  beat  me  to  it.  What  have  you 
arrived  at?  " 

"  The  certainty  that  the  man  who  dropped  the  band 
was  the  thief." 

"  We're  agreed  at  last.  Have  you  gone  far  enough 
round  to  come  to  a  suspect?  " 

"No,  I'm  stuck  there." 

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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

He  blew  out  a  ring,  watched  it  float  away  into  the 
darkness  and  said: 

"  So  am  I.  But  I've  a  small,  single  compartment 
brain  that  can't  accommodate  more  than  one  idea  at 
a  time.  And  it's  busy  just  now  in  another  direction. 
If  you'll  put  that  forty  horse-power  one  of  yours  on 
this  we  ought  to  get  round  the  whole  way."  He  glanced 
sideways  at  me,  his  eyes  full  of  meaning.  "  You'll 
find  I  can  be  a  very  grateful  person." 

"  Gratitude's  a  kind  of  pay  I  like." 

"  Yes  —  it's  stimulating  and  it  can  take  more  than 
one  form."  He  flung  away  the  cigarette,  leaned  back 
against  the  post  and  said :  "  The  worst  of  it  is  that 
our  main  exhibit,  the  cigar  band,  is  gone.  I  looked 
for  it  last  night  and  found  it  was  lost." 

"  Lost !  "  I  sat  up  quick.  He'd  told  me  where  he 
kept  it  and  right  off  I  thought  it  was  funny.  "  Gone 
out  of  that  box  you  had  it  in?  " 

"  Yes.  I  wanted  to  see  it  when  I  came  in  —  I'd  been 
in  town  —  and  it  wasn't  in  the  box." 

"  Had  it  been  there  recently  ?  " 

"  Um  —  I  can't  tell  just  how  recently  —  perhaps  a 
week  ago." 

"  Did  you  ask  about  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  asked  Willitts.     He  said  he  hadn't  seen  it." 

"  Didn't  you  tell  me  you  kept  studs  and  jewelry  in 
that  box?" 

270 


"  I  did ;  that's  what  it's  for.  I  don't  see  how  he 
could  have  helped  seeing  it.  I  daresay  he  did  and, 
thinking  it  was  of  no  use,  threw  it  away  and  then,  when 
he  saw  I  wanted  it,  got  scared  and  lied." 

A  thing  like  a  zigzag  of  lightning  went  through  me. 
It  stabbed  down  from  my  head  to  my  feet,  giving  my 
heart  a  whack  as  it  passed.  My  voice  sounded  queer 
as  I  spoke: 

"  He  could  have  known,  couldn't  he,  of  that  walk 
you  and  Miss  Maitland  took,  that  walk  when  you  found 
the  band?" 

He  had  been  looking,  dreamy  and  indifferent,  out  into 
the  darkness.  Now  he  turned  to  me,  a  little  surprised, 
as  if  he  was  wondering  at  my  questions : 

"  I  suppose  so.  He  knew  all  my  crowd  up  there ; 
they're  forever  running  back  and  forth  from  one  place 
to  the  other.  They  know  everything,  and  they're  the 
greatest  gossips  and  snobs  in  the  country.  I've  no 
doubt  he  heard  it  talked  threadbare  —  the  boss  walking 
home  with  Mrs.  Janney's  secretary.  Probably  gave 
their  social  sensibilities  a  jolt." 

Something  lifted  me  out  of  my  chair,  carried  me 
across  the  balcony,  plunked  me  down  beside  him  on  a 
lower  step.  I  craned  up  my  head  near  to  his  and  I'll 
never  forget  the  expression  of  his  face,  sort  of  blank, 
as  if  he  wasn't  sure  whether  I'd  gone  crazy  or  was 
going  to  kiss  him. 

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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

"  Some  one  who  knew  the  family,  some  one  who  knew 
it  was  out  that  night,  some  one  who  knew  Miss  Maitland 
had  the  combination,  some  one  who  could  have  got  a  key 
to  the  front  door,  some  one  the  dogs  were  friendly 
with!" 

He  was  staring  at  me  as  if  he  was  hypnotized  —  get- 
ting a  gleam  of  it  but  not  the  full  light.  I  put  my 
hands  on  his  shoulders  and  gave  them  a  shake. 

"  You  simp,  wake  up.     It's  Willitts !  " 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

GAUDS    ON    THE    TABLE 

IN  spite  of  Molly's  excited  certainty  that  Willitts 
was  the  thief,  Ferguson  was  not  convinced.     He 
met  her  impetuous  demand  for  the  valet's  arrest 
with  a  recommendation  for  a  fuller  knowledge  of  his 
activities  on  the  night  of  the  robbery.     Willitts  had 
gone  to  the  movies  with  the  Grasslands  servants  and 
if  he  had  been  with  them  the  whole  evening  he  was  as 
innocent  as  Dixon  or  Isaac.     She  had  to  agree  and 
promised  to  do  nothing  until  she  had  satisfied  herself 
that  his  movements  tallied  with  their  findings. 

Ferguson  had  a  restless  night.  There  was  matter 
on  his  mind  to  keep  him  awake;  he  was  fearful  that 
Suzanne  might  make  some  false  step.  She  was  at  best 
a  shifty,  unstable  creature,  how  much  more  so  now 
strained  to  the  breaking  point.  He  felt  he  ought  to 
be  in  town  where  he  could  keep  her  under  his  eye,  and 
decided  to  motor  in  in  the  morning.  Also  he  began 
to  think  that  Molly  was  probably  right;  she  was  shrewd 
and  experienced,  knew  more  of  such  matters  than  he. 
He  would  go  to  the  Whitney  office  and  put  the  Willitts' 

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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

affair  in  their  hands,  then  run  up  to  the  St.  Boniface, 
take  a  room,  and  have  a  look  in  at  Suzanne. 

He  left  the  house  at  nine-thirty,  telling  the  butler 
he  was  called  to  the  city  on  business,  and  might  be  gone 
a  day  or  two.  At  the  Whitney  office  he  was  informed 
that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Janney  were  in  consultation  with 
the  heads  of  the  firm,  and,  saying  he  would  not  disturb 
them,  waited  in  an  outer  room  from  whence  he  tele- 
phoned to  Suzanne,  telling  her  he  would  be  at  the  hotel 
later.  When  the  Janneys  had  gone  he  was  ushered  into 
the  old  man's  office  where  he  found  the  air  still  vibrat- 
ing with  the  clash  of  battle.  A  combined  attack  had 
been  made  on  Mrs.  Janney  who,  under  its  pressure  and 
the  slow  undermining  of  her  confidence  by  a  week  of 
failure,  had  given  in  and  consented  to  a  move  on  Price. 
It  had  been  planned  for  that  afternoon,  when  he  was 
to  be  summoned  to  the  office,  charged  with  the  kid- 
naping and  commanded  to  render  up  the  child. 

Whitney  and  his  son  listened  to  Ferguson's  story  of 
the  cigar  band  with  unconcealed  interest.  George, 
however,  was  skeptical  —  it  was  ingenious  and  plausible, 
showed  Molly's  fine  Italian  hand;  but  his  mind  had 
accepted  the  theory  of  Esther's  participation  and  was 
of  the  unelastic,  unmalleable  kind.  His  father  was 
obviously  impressed  by  it,  admitting  that  his  original 
conviction  of  the  girl's  guilt  had  been  shaken.  To 
George's  indignant  rehearsal  of  the  evidence,  he  ac- 

274 


corded  a  series  of  acquiescing  nods,  agreed  that  the 
facts  were  against  him  and  maintained  his  stand.  He 
would  see  Willitts  as  soon  as  possible  and  put  him 
through  a  grilling  examination.  O'Malley  could  be 
sent  to  Council  Oaks  at  once  to  bring  him  in,  and  his 
business  could  be  disposed  of  before  they  got  round  to 
Price.  As  Ferguson  rose  to  go  George  had  the  re- 
ceiver of  the  desk  telephone  down  and  was  giving  low- 
voiced  instructions  to  O'Malley  to  report  immediately 
at  the  office. 

It  was  nearly  one  when  the  young  man  found  himself 
on  the  street  level.  There  was  no  use  going  to  the 
St.  Boniface  now  as  the  family  would  be  at  lunch  and 
speech  alone  with  Suzanne  impossible.  On  the  way 
uptown  he  stopped  at  a  restaurant,  ordered  food  which 
he  hardly  touched,  filling  out  the  time  with  cigarettes. 
By  half-past  two  he  was  on  the  move  again,  threading 
a  slow  way  through  the  traffic,  his  eye  lingering  on 
the  clock  faces  that  loomed  at  intervals  along  the 
Avenue.  Suzanne  had  told  him  that  the  old  people 
always  went  for  a  drive  after  lunch  and  he  scanned 
the  motors  that  passed  him,  hoping  to  see  them.  He 
was  in  no  mood  for  polite  conversation  —  felt  with  the 
passing  of  the  hours  an  increasing  tension,  a  gathering 
of  his  forces  for  a  leap  and  a  struggle. 

At  the  desk  in  the  St.  Boniface  he  heard  that  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Janney  had  just  gone  out,  and  waited  while 

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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

Mrs.  Price's  room  was  called  up.  There  was  no  re- 
sponse; Mrs.  Price  must  be  out  too.  The  information 
made  him  uneasy ;  she  had  told  him  she  went  nowhere 
except  to  Larkin's.  More  than  ever  anxious  to  see  her, 
he  engaged  a  room  and  left  the  message  that  he  would 
be  there  and  to  be  called  up  when  she  came  in.  The 
door  shut  on  him,  his  uneasiness  increased;  wondering 
what  had  taken  her  out,  wondering  if  she  had  done  any- 
thing foolish,  cursing  the  fate  that  had  placed  so  much 
in  her  feeble  hands,  perturbed  and  restless  as  a  lion  in 
a  cage. 

Suzanne  had  gone  to  Larkin's,  called  there  by  a 
telephone  message.  It  had  come  almost  on  the  heels 
of  her  parents'  departure  and  was  brief  —  a  request 
to  come  to  him  as  soon  as  she  could.  She  had  scrambled 
into  her  street  clothes,  and,  shaking  in  every  limb, 
slipped  out  of  the  hotel's  side  door  and  sped  across 
town  in  a  taxi  to  hear  how  Bebita  was  to  be  found. 

She  was  hardly  inside  the  door,  her  veil  lifted  from  a 
face  as  pale  as  Cassar's  ghost,  when  Larkin  answered 
her  look  of  agonized  question: 

"  Yes,  the  letter's  come  —  what  we  expect,  very  clear 
and  explicit.  It  was  sent  to  me  this  time  —  came  on 
the  two  o'clock  delivery." 

He  turned  to  the  desk  and  took  up  a  folded  paper. 
Before  he  could  offer  it  to  her,  she  had  leaned  forward 

276 


Cards  on  the  Table 


and  snatched  it  out  of  his  hand.     Instantly  her  eyes 
were  riveted  on  the  lines : 

"  Mr.  Horace  Larkin, 
DEAH  SIR: 

In  answer  to  the  ad.  in  the  Daily  Record,  we  are  dealing 
through  you  as  the  agent  named  by  Mrs.  Price.  We  do  this 
as  we  realize  that  a  lady  of  Mrs.  Price's  type  and  experience 
would  be  unable  to  handle  alone  so  important  a  matter.  Be- 
fore we  enter  into  details  we  must  again  repeat  our  warnings  — 
not  only  the  return  of  the  child  but  her  life  is  dependent  on  the 
actions  of  her  mother  and  yourself.  If  you  are  wise  to  this  and 
follow  our  instructions  Bebita  will  be  restored  to  her  family  on 
Saturday  night. 

The  plan  of  procedure  must  be  as  follows:  At  eight-thirty  a 
roadster,  containing  only  the  driver  and  marked  by  a  handker- 
chief fastened  to  the  windshield,  must  leave  the  village  of  North 
Cresson  by  the  Cresson  turnpike,  at  a  rate  of  speed  not  exceed- 
ing fifteen  miles  an  hour.  It  must  proceed  eastward  along  the 
pike  for  a  distance  of  ten  miles.  Somewhere  during  this  run  a 
car  will  pass  it  and  from  its  tonneau  flash  an  electric  lantern 
twice.  Follow  this  car.  Make  no  attempt  to  hail  or  to  overtake 
it.  It  will  turn  from  the  main  road  and  proceed  for  some  dis- 
tance. When  it  stops  the  driver  of  the  roadster  must  alight,  place 
the  money  at  a  spot  indicated,  and  submit,  without  parley,  to 
being  bound  and  gagged.  When  this  is  done  the  child  will  be  left 
beside  him.  If  agreed  to  insert  following  personal  in  The  Daily 
Record  of  Saturday  morning:  '  James,  meet  you  at  the  time 
and  place  specified.  Tom.' 

(Signed)  CLANSMEX." 

The  letter  fluttered  to  the  desk  and  Suzanne  sank 
into  a  chair.  Larkin  looked  at  her ;  his  glance  showed 
some  anxiety  but  his  voice  was  hearty  and  encouraging : 

"  Well,  you  agree,  of  course  ?  " 
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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

She  nodded,  swallowing  on  a  throat  too  dry  for 
speech. 

He  picked  up  the  letter  and  ran  a  frowning  eye 
over  it: 

"  It  simply  confirms  what  I  thought  —  old  hands. 
It's  about  as  secure  as  such  a  thing  could  be.  I  don't 
see  a  loose  end." 

She  made  no  answer  and  he  went  on  still  studying  the 
paper : 

"  I'm  not  familiar  with  this  country,  but  they 
wouldn't  have  picked  it  out  unless  it  offered  every 
chance  of  escape." 

"  Escape !  "  she  breathed.  "  They've  got  to  es- 
cape." 

It  made  him  smile,  the  eye  he  turned  on  her  showed 
a  quizzical  amusement: 

"  You're  almost  talking  like  an  accomplice,  Mrs. 
Price."  But  he  quickly  grew  grave  as  he  met  her 
tragic  glance.  "  Pardon  me,  I  shouldn't  have  said 
that,  but  the  fact  is,  with  the  climax  in  sight,  I'm  a 
bit  on  edge  myself."  Then  with  a  brusque  change  of 
tone,  "  Do  you  know  this  section  of  Long  Island?  " 

"  Yes,  well  —  I've  driven  over  it  often." 

"  Am  I  right  in  thinking  there  are  numbers  of  roads 
leading  from  the  Cresson  Turnpike?  " 

"  Lots  of  them,  to  the  Sound  and  inland." 

"  Umph ! "  he  threw  the  letter  on  the  desk  and  sat 
278 


Cards  on  the  Table 


down.  "  I  don't  think  you  need  worry  about  their  get- 
ting away.  Now  we  must  settle  this  up  and  then  I'll 
go  out  and  have  the  ad  inserted.  We've  got  to  hustle 
—  they've  only  given  us  a  little  over  twenty-four 
hours." 

She  looked  dazedly  at  him  and  murmured: 

"  What  have  we  got  to  do  ?  " 

"  Why  — "  he  was  very  gentle  as  to  a  stupid  and 
bewildered  child  — "  we  have  to  arrange  about  this 
car  —  our  car,  the  one  that  gets  the  signal." 

"  We  can  hire  it,  can't  we?  " 

"  Well,  we  could  hire  the  car,  but  the  driver  —  we 
can't  very  well  hire  him.  He  must  be  some  one  upon 
whom  we  can  rely." 

She  stared  at  him,  her  eyes  dilating : 

"  Yes,  yes,  of  course.     I'd  forgotten  that." 

"  Is  there  any  one  you  can  suggest  —  any  one  that 
you  know  you  could  trust  and  who  would  be  willing 
to  undertake  it?  " 

"  Yes,"  the  word  came  with  a  sudden  decision.  "  I 
know  some  one."  Larkin  eyed  her  sharply.  She  looked 
more  alive  than  she  had  done  since  her  entrance,  seemed 
to  be  vitalized  into  a  roused,  responsive  intelligence. 
"  I  know  exactly  the  person." 

"  Entirely  trustworthy?  " 

"Absolutely.     Mr.  Ferguson  —  Dick  Ferguson." 

"  Oh,  yes,  Ferguson  of  Council  Oaks."  He  mused  a 
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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

moment  under  her  hungry  scrutiny.  "  Do  you  think 
he'd  be  willing  to  —  er  —  agree  to  their  demands  as 
you  have?  " 

"  Yes,  he'd  do  it  to  help  me.  He's  an  old  friend ;  I 
know  him  through  and  through.  He'd  do  it  if  I  asked 
him." 

The  detective  was  silent  for  a  moment,  then  said : 

"  Well,  we  have  to  have  some  one  and  if  you're  will- 
ing to  vouch  for  him  I'll  abide  by  what  you  say.  Be- 
fore you  came  in  I  was  thinking  of  offering  to  do  it 
myself.  But  there  are  reasons  against  that.  I  don't 
mind  helping  you  this  way  —  quietly,  on  the  side  — 
but  to  be  an  actual  participant  in  the  final  deal,  handle 
the  money,  be  more  or  less  responsible  for  the  person 
of  the  child  —  I'd  rather  not  —  I'd  better  not.  And 
anyway  I  think  I  can  be  more  useful  as  an  observer,  an 
unsuspected  spectator  who  may  see  something  worth 
while." 

She  gave  a  stifled  scream  and  caught  at  his  hand, 
resting  on  the  edge  of  the  desk: 

"  No,  no,  Mr.  Larkin,  please,  I  beg  of  you.  You're 
not  going  to  try  and  catch  them." 

Her  fingers  gripped  like  talons ;  he  laid  his  free  hand 
over  them,  soothingly  patting  them: 

"  Now,  now,  Mrs.  Price,  please  have  confidence  in 
me.  Am  I  likely,  at  this  stage  of  the  game,  to  do 
anything  to  queer  it  ?  " 

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Cards  on  the  Table 


She  did  not  reply,  her  eyes  shifting  from  his,  her  teeth 
set  tight  on  her  quivering  underlip.  He  waited  a  mo- 
ment and  then  spoke  with  a  new  note,  dominating,  au- 
thoritative, as  one  in  command: 

"  My  dear  lady,  you've  got  to  get  hold  of  yourself. 
I  can't  go  on  with  this  if  you  don't  trust  me.  We're 
launched  on  an  enterprise  by  no  means  easy  and  if  we 
don't  pull  together  we'll  fail,  that's  all." 

That  steadied  her.  She  dropped  his  hand  and  broke 
into  tremulous  protestations: 

"  I  do,  I  do,  Mr.  Larkin.  It's  only  that  I'm  so  ter- 
ribly afraid,  so  upset  and  desperate.  Of  course  I  trust 
you.  Would  I  be  here,  day  after  day,  if  I  didn't?" 

He  was  mollified,  dropped  back  with  the  crisp,  alert 
manner  of  the  detective. 

"  All  right,  we'll  let  it  go  at  that.  Now  as  to 
Ferguson  —  you'll  have  to  get  word  to  him  at  once. 
Is  he  in  the  country?  " 

"  No  —  he's  here.  I  had  a  telephone  from  him  this 
morning  to  say  he  was  in  town  and  would  be  at  the 
hotel  later  in  the  day.  He's  probably  there  now,  wait- 
ing for  me." 

"  Um !  "  Larkin  considered  for  a  moment.  "  That's 
lucky.  There's  no  time  to  waste.  Get  his  consent 
and  then  'phone  me  here.  Just  a  word.  And  you  un- 
derstand he'll  have  to  know  the  circumstances;  he'll 
have  to  be  wise  to  everything  if  he's  to  play  his  part." 

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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

Suzanne  had  lied  so  long  and  so  variously  that  she 
did  it  with  a  natural  ease.  No  one,  having  seen  her 
as  Larkin  had,  would  have  guessed  the  knowledge  she 
hid.  Her  air  of  innocently  comprehending  his  charge 
was  a  triumph  of  duplicity. 

"  Of  course,  I  know,  I  understand.  It'll  be  a  dread- 
ful surprise  to  him  but  he'll  see  it  as  I  do.  And  he'll 
do  what  I  ask  — I  'm  as  certain  of  that  as  I  am  of  his 
secrecy." 

She  would  have  to  have  the  letter  to  show  him,  and 
Larkin,  after  a  last,  careful  perusal  of  it,  handed  it 
to  her.  Then  she  went,  cutting  off  his  heartening  words 
of  farewell,  making  her  way  out  in  a  quick,  noiseless 
rush.  At  the  desk  in  the  hotel  she  learned  that  Fergu- 
son was  there,  asked  to  have  him  apprised  of  her  re- 
turn and  sent  at  once  to  her  sitting  room. 


282 


CHAPTER  XXV 

MOLLY'S  STORY 

THE  morning  after  that  talk  with  Ferguson  I 
rose  up  "  loaded  for  bar."  At  breakfast  I  led 
Dixon  round  to  the  old  subject  —  we  were  good 
friends  now  and  he'd  drop  his  professional  manner  when 
we  were  alone  and  talk  like  a  human  being.  Of  course 
he  remembered  everything,  and  opened  up  as  fluent  as 
a  gramophone.  Willitts  hadn't  found  them  at  the 
movies  till  nearly  ten  —  been  delayed  on  his  way  in  from 
Cedar  Brook,  his  landlady's  little  girl  had  been  took 
bad  with  croup  and  he'd  gone  for  the  doctor  —  Dr. 
Bernard,  who  was  off  on  a  side  road  half  way  between 
Cedar  Brook  and  Berkeley. 

That  ought  to  have  been  enough  for  me,  but  having 
started  I  thought  I'd  clear  it  all  up,  so  I  borrowed 
a  bike  off  Ellen  and  set  out  on  the  double  quick  for 
Dr.  Bernard's.  I  saw  Mrs.  Bernard  and  heard  all  I 
wanted.  Willitts  had  been  there  on  the  night  of  July 
seventh,  came  on  a  bicycle,  saw  the  doctor  and  gave  his 
message  about  the  sick  child.  She  thought  it  was 
somewhere  between  eight  and  half-past  —  the  storm 

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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

was  just  stopping.  I  lit  out  for  home;  I'd  got  it  all 
now.  He'd  gone  straight  from  the  doctor's  to  Grass- 
lands, taken  the  jewels,  and  made  a  short  cut  back  to 
the  main  road  through  the  woods  to  where  he'd  hidden 
his  wheel. 

When  you  get  this  far  on  a  case  there  comes  over 
you  a  sort  of  terror  that  you  may  slip  up.  You  have 
it  all  in  your  hand,  your  fingers  are  stretched  to  lay 
hold  on  the  criminal,  and  an  awful  fear  takes  possession 
of  you  that  right  on  the  threshold  of  success  you  may 
lose.  The  cup  and  the  lip  —  that's  the  idea. 

This  seized  me  on  the  ride  back  to  Grasslands.  Why 
was  the  cigar  band  gone  if  he  wasn't  wise  to  what  it 
meant?  It  was  a  powerful  hot  day,  smothering  on  the 
wood  roads,  but  the  way  I  made  that  machine  shoot 
you'd  suppose  it  was  a  hard  frost  and  I  was  peddling 
to  get  up  my  circulation.  He  might  be  gone  already, 
taken  fright  and  skipped!  I  had  a  vision  of  telling 
the  Chief  and  what  he'd  say,  and  the  perspiration  came 
out  on  me  like  the  beads  on  a  mint  julep  glass.  I'd 
go  to  town  right  now  —  there  was  an  express  at  eleven 
—  but  before  I  left  I'd  call  up  Council  Oaks  and  find 
out  if  he  was  there. 

As  I  ran  up  the  piazza  steps  the  hall  clock  chimed 
out  a  single  note,  half -past  ten  —  I  had  plenty  of 
time.  I  called  to  Dixon  to  order  the  motor  —  I  was 
going  to  town  —  whisked  into  the  telephone  closet,  and 


Molly's  Story 


made  the  connection.  The  voice  that  answered  lifted 
me  up  out  of  the  depths  —  for  I  guessed  it  was  Willitts 
by  the  dialect,  English,  with  the  "  H's  "  hanging  on 
sort  of  loose  and  wobbly.  To  make  sure  I  asked,  and 
it  answered,  smooth  as  a  summer  sea  —  yes,  I  was  talk- 
ing to  Mr.  Ferguson's  valet,  Willitts.  Mr.  Ferguson 
was  not  at  'ome,  'ed  gone  to  the  city  to  be  away  a  day 
or  two.  Was  there  any  message?  There  wasn't  — 
you  could  bet  on  that  —  and  I  eased  off  in  a  high-class 
society  drawl. 

With  a  deep  breath  I  dropped  back  to  normal, 
smoothed  my  feathers,  powdered  my  nose,  and  when  the 
motor  came  round  looked  like  a  shy  little  nursery  gov- 
erness, snitching  a  day  off  in  town. 

It  was  at  the  station  that  something  happened  which 
ended  my  peaceful  state  and  gave  me  an  experience 
I'll  remember  as  long  as  I  live. 

Just  as  I  was  stepping  on  the  train  I  took  a  glance 
back  along  the  platform  and  there,  close  behind  me, 
dressed  as  neat  as  a  tailor's  dummy,  was  Willitts  with 
a  bag  in  his  hand.  He  didn't  notice  me,  and  if  he 
had  he  wouldn't  have  known  me,  for  I'd  only  passed  him 
onc'e  in  the  village  and  then  he  wasn't  looking  my  way. 
I  mounted  up  the  steps  and  went  into  the  car.  From 
the  tail  of  my  eye  I  saw  him  in  the  doorway  and  when 
he'd  taken  the  seat  in  front  of  me,  I  dropped  against 

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flfiss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

the  back  of  mine,  saying  to  myself:     "  Hully  Gee,  he's 
going!  " 

All  the  way  into  town,  I  sat  with  my  eyes  on  his  hat, 
thinking  what  I'd  better  do.  There  was  one  thing 
certain  —  that  stood  out  like  the  writing  on  the  wall 
—  I  mustn't  let  him  out  of  my  sight.  Where  he  went 
I'd  have  to  go,  tight  as  a  barnacle  I'd  have  to  stick  to 
that  desperado.  I  tried  to  think  how  I  could  get  a 
message  to  the  Whitneys'  office,  but  I  didn't  see  how  I 
was  going  to  find  the  time  or  the  opportunity.  If  the 
worst  came  to  the  worst  I  could  call  a  cop,  but  if  I 
knew  anything  of  men  like  Willitts,  he'd  keep  a  watch 
out  like  a  warship  for  periscopes,  for  anything  that 
wore  brass  buttons  and  connected  with  the  law. 

The  "  Penn  "  station  was  as  hot  as  a  Turkish  bath 
and  through  it  you  can  imagine  me,  trying  to  trip  light 
and  airy,  and  keeping  both  eyes  as  tight  as  steel  rivets 
on  that  man's  back.  I've  never  shadowed  anybody  — 
it's  not  been  included  in  my  college  course  —  all  I  knew 
was  I  mustn't  lose  him  and  I  mustn't  get  him  suspicious, 
and  if  you're  making  away  with  a  fortune  in  a  handbag, 
suspicion  ought  to  be  your  natural  state.  So  I  trailed 
after  him  as  far  in  the  rear  as  I  dared,  sometimes,  a 
gang  rushing  for  a  train  coming  in  between  us,  some- 
times the  space  clear  with  him  hurrying  to  the  exit 
and  me  sort  of  loitering  and  gawking  up  at  the  maps 
on  the  ceiling. 

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Molly's  Story 


Out  in  the  street  he  turned  and  shot  a  glance  like  a 
searchlight  round  behind  him.  It  swept  over  me  and 
took  no  notice,  which  was  qonsiderable  of  an  encourage- 
ment. If  it  was  warm  in  the  station,  it  was  sizzling 
outside.  Men  were  carrying  their  coats  on  their  arms, 
some  of  them  using  palm  leaf  fans,  careful  ones  keeping 
to  the  edge  of  shade  along  the  house  fronts.  But  Wil- 
litts  didn't  mind  the  sun;  I  guess  when  you're  making 
off  with  a  fortune  you're  indifferent  to  temperature 
—  it's  another  proof  of  mind  over  matter. 

After  walking  down  Seventh  Avenue  for  a  few  minutes 
he  turned  to  the  left  and  struck  across  a  side  street 
to  Sixth.  Half  way  down  the  block  he  went  into  a 
men's  furnishing  store,  and  sauntering  slow  past  the 
window,  I  saw  him  looking  at  collars.  There  was  a 
stationer's  just  beyond  and  I  cast  anchor  there,  by  a 
counter  near  the  door  set  out  with  magazines.  A  sales 
girl  lounged  up,  chewing  her  gum  like  the  heat  had 
made  her  languid,  and  looking  interested  over  my 
clothes. 

"  Awful  warm,  ain't  it?"  she  said,  and  I  answered, 
picking  up  a  magazine: 

"  It's  something  fierce.     I'll  take  this  one." 

"  You  got  that  one  already,"  says  she,  pointing  to 
the  magazine  I'd  bought  at  Berkeley  and  was  still 
clinging  to.  "  Don't  you  wanna  try  something  new  ?  " 

"Oh  —  it's  the  heat;  the  sun  gets  my  head  woozy." 
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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 


I  picked  out  another  and  gave  her  a  dollar,  the  smallest 
change  I  had.  As  she  was  walking  to  the  cash  register, 
Willitts  passed  the  door  and  I  was  out  on  the  sill, 
moving  cautious  to  the  sidewalk. 

"  Say,"  comes  the  girl's  voice  from  behind  me,  "  what 
are  you  doin'?  You  ain't  got  your  change  yet.  You'd 
oughtn't  to  be  let  out  in  this  sun." 

"  Keep  it,"  I  called  back.  "  I  was  a  working  girl 
once  myself." 

At  the  corner  of  Fifth  Avenue  he  stopped  and,  a 
bus  coming  along,  he  haled  it.  "  Lord,"  thought  I, 
'*  if  he  gets  into  that  without  me  I'll  have  to  run  after 
it  and  they'll  arrest  me  for  a  lunatic."  Being  quite  a 
ways  behind,  I  had  to  make  a  dash  for  it,  waving  my 
magazine  and  hollering  like  the  rubes  from  the  country. 
He  was  up  on  the  roof,  and  the  bus  was  moving  when  I 
lit  on  the  step,  and  was  hauled  in  friendly  by  the  con- 
ductor. 

We  jolted  downtown,  me  sitting  sideways  in  a  rear 
seat  watching  the  stairs  for  Willitts'  legs.  It  wasn't 
until  we  were  below  Twenty-third  Street  that  they  came 
into  view,  stepping  lightly  down.  The  bus  heaved  up 
against  the  curb  and  he  swung  off,  me  behind  him.  I 
was  terribly  scared  that  he'd  begin  to  suspect  me,  and 
all  I  could  think  of  that  would  look  natural  was  to 
roll  my  eyes  flirtatious  at  the  conductor,  who  seemed 
to  like  it  so  much  I  was  afraid  he  wouldn't  let  me  off. 

288 


Molly's  Story 


When  I  got  down  on  the  pavement  Willitts  was  walk- 
ing along  the  cross  street  back  toward  Sixth  Avenue. 
Midway  down  the  block,  he  stopped  and  disappeared 
through  a  doorway.  I  was  quite  a  piece  behind  him  and 
when  I  saw  him  fade  out  of  sight  I  forgot  everything 
and  ran.  At  the  door  I  came  up  short,  panting  and 
purple  in  the  face  —  the  place  was  a  restaurant.  It 
had  a  large  plate  glass  window  with  white  letters  on 
it  and  a  man  making  pancakes  where  he'd  show  plain- 
est. Inside  I  could  see  Willitts  seating  himself  at  a 
littered  up  table. 

"  Lunch ! "  I  said  to  myself.  "  He's  going  to  eat, 
the  cool  devil.  Now's  my  chance !  " 

Almost  directly  opposite  was  a  drug  store  with  tele- 
phone booths  close  to  the  window.  I  could  get  a  mes- 
sage to  the  office,  and  if  I  caught  the  chief  or  Mr. 
George,  I  could  have  a  man  up  in  twenty  minutes.  If 
they  weren't  there  I'd  try  headquarters,  but  I  was  afraid 
of  that  —  they'd  ask  questions,  waste  time,  want  to 
know  who  I  was  and  what  it  was  all  about.  If  only 
Willitts  was  hungry,  if  he'd  only  eat  enough  to  last 
till  I  got  some  one,  if  he'd  only  order  pancakes.  As  I 
waited  for  the  connection  I  found  myself  sort  of  praying 
"  Pancakes  —  make  him  order  pancakes.  They're 
made  in  the  window  and  they  take  quite  a  while.  Please 
make  him  eat  pancakes  !  " 

Right  in  the  midst  of  my  prayer  came  the  voice  of 
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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

Miss  Quinn,  the  switchboard  girl  in  the  office,  and  for 
me  it  was: 

"  Quick,  Miss  Quinn  —  it's  Mrs.  Babbitts.  Is  Mr. 
Whitney  or  Mr.  George  there  ?  Give  'em  to  me  —  on 
the  jump  —  if  they  are." 

She  didn't  waste  a  word,  and  in  a  minute  Mr.  George's 
voice  came  sharp: 

"Hello,  who  is  it?" 

"  Molly,  Mr.  George.  And  I've  got  Willitts  —  and 
I've  got  enough  on  him  to  know  he's  the  thief  —  I 
can't  tell  you  now  but  — " 

He  cut  in  with: 

"I  know,  I  know,  Ferguson's  told  us.  O'Malley's 
here  now  going  to  Council  Oaks  for  him." 

I  almost  screamed: 

"  Send  him  here.  Willitts  is  off;  he's  left  and  I've 
trailed  him.  I'm  waiting  at  the  door  and  he's  in- 
side." 

"  Inside  what,  where  the  devil  are  you?  " 

I  gave  him  the  directions  and  then : 

"  It's  a  restaurant ;  he's  eating.  But  it  may  only  be 
a  doughnut  and  a  glass  of  milk.  If  it's  pancakes  we're 
safe,  but  a  man  lighting  out  with  a  fortune  in  a  hand- 
bag don't  generally  want  anything  so  filling.  I'll  fol- 
low him  until  I  drop,  but  I  don't  want  to  travel  round 
with  a  jewel  thief  unless  I  have  to." 

"  I'll  send  O'Malley  now.  You  stay  right  there  and 
290 


if  Willitts  finishes  before  he  comes,  hold  him  any  way 
you  can.  Get  a  cop.  I'll  'phone  to  headquarters  for 
a  warrant.  So  long." 

Of  course  I  thought  of  the  cop,  but  spying  out  from 
the  doorway,  there  wasn't  one  in  sight.  And  by  this 
time  I  was  considerably  worked  up,  afraid  to  move  in 
any  direction,  afraid  to  take  my  eyes  from  the  restau- 
rant entrance.  I  pulled  up  one  of  the  chairs  they  have 
for  people  getting  prescriptions  filled,  and  sat  down  by 
the  doorway,  watching  the  place  opposite,  like  a  cat 
camped  in  front  of  a  mouse  hole. 

Ten  minutes  had  passed.  If  the  traffic  wasn't  too 
thick  on  Broadway  O'Malley  could  make  it  in  less 
than  twenty.  But  the  traffic  was  thick  —  it  was  the 
middle  of  the  day ;  if  he  was  stalled  or  had  to  make  a 
detour  it  might  run  toward  half  an  hour.  He  might 
be  —  The  door  of  the  restaurant  opened  and  out 
crept  the  mouse. 

The  cat  rose  up,  soft  and  stealthy,  with  her  claws 
ready.  As  I  crossed  the  street  I  sent  a  look  both 
ways  —  not  a  taxi  in  sight,  not  a  cop,  only  the  whole 
thoroughfare  tangled  up  with  drays  and  delivery 
wagons.  There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  stop  him, 
first  put  out  the  velvet  paw  and  then  shoot  the  claws. 
Jumping  quick  on  the  curb  I  came  up  alongside  of 
him,  a  smile  on  my  face  that  felt  like  the  grin  you  get 
when  you  make  a  j  oke  that  no  one  sees. 

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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 


"  Why,  hullo,"  I  said,  going  at  him  with  ray  hand  out, 
"  I  couldn't  at  first  believe  it  —  but  it  is  you." 

He  drew  up  quick,  all  on  the  alert,  looking  at  me 
with  hard,  ferret  eyes. 

"Who  are  you?"  he  said,  fierce  and  forbidding. 
"What  do  you  want?" 

I  put  my  head  sideways,  and  tried  to  take  the  curse 
off  the  smile,  changing  it  to  a  sort  of  trembly  sweet- 
ness. 

"  Why,  don't  you  know  me?  I  can't  be  changed 
that  bad.  It's  Rosie." 

I  didn't  know  what  his  Christian  name  was  and  any- 
way, if  I  had  it  wouldn't  have  helped  —  a  man  like 
Willitts  changes  his  name  as  often  as  he  does  his  ad- 
dress. But  I  had  to  call  him  something,  so  when  I  saw 
the  anger  rising  in  his  eyes,  I  said,  all  broken  and 
tender  like  the  deserted  wife  in  the  last  act : 

"  Dearie,  don't  pretend  you  don't  remember  me  — 
it's  Rosie  from  the  old  country." 

He  began  to  look  savage,  also  alarmed : 

"  I  don't  know  what  you're  talking  about.  I  never 
saw  you  before  in  my  life." 

He  made  a  movement  to  pass  on,  but  I  drew  up  close, 
wiped  off  the  smile,  and  put  on  the  look  of  true  love 
that  won't  let  go. 

"Oh,  dearie,  don't  say  that.  Haven't  I  worn  the 
soles  off  my  shoes  hunting  for  you  ever  since,  ever 

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Molly's  Story 


since  — "     Gee,  I  didn't  know  how  to  finish  it,  then  it 
came  in  a  flash.     I  moaned  out,  "  ever  since  we  parted." 

"  Look  'ere,  young  woman,"  he  said,  low,  with  a 
face  on  him  like  a  meat  ax,  "  this  doesn't  go  with  me. 
Now  get  out ;  get  off  or  I'll  'ave  you  run  in." 

I  knew  he  wouldn't  do  that;  he'd  hand  over  the 
jewels  first.  I  raised  up  my  voice  in  a  wail  and  said: 

"  Oh,  dearie,  you're  faking ;  I  won't  believe  it.  You 
can't  have  forgot  —  back  in  the  old  country,  me  and 
you." 

A  messenger  boy,  slouching  by,  heard  me  and  drew 
up,  hopeful  of  some  fun.  Willitts  saw  him  and  began 
to  look  like  murder  would  be  added  to  his  other  offenses. 
I  gave  a  glance  up  the  street  —  still  only  drays  and 
wagons,  not  a  taxi  in  sight.  Fatima  with  Sister  Anne 
reporting  from  the  tower,  had  nothing  over  me  for 
watchful  waiting. 

"  It's  Rosie,"  I  whined,  "  it's  your  own  little  Rosie. 
If  I  don't  look  the  same  it's  the  suffering  you've  caused 
me  and  Gawd  knows  it." 

I  laid  my  hand  on  his  arm.  With  a  movement  of 
fury  he  shook  it  off  and  began  to  back  away  from  me. 
Another  boy  had  come  up  against  the  messenger  and 
lodged  there  like  a  leaf  in  a  stream,  caught  in  an  eddy. 
I  heard  him  say,  "What's  on?"  and  the  other  an- 
swered : 

"  Don't  know  but  I  guess  it's  the  movies." 
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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

And  they  both  looked  round  for  the  camera  man. 

I  don't  think  Willitts  heard  them.  His  back  was 
that  way  and  his  face  to  me,  hard  as  iron  and  savage 
as  a  hungry  wolf's.  He  tried  to  speak  low  and  sooth- 
ing: 

"  Now  'old  your  tongue,  don't  make  such  a  fuss. 
I'll  give  you  something  and  you  go  off  quiet  and  re- 
spectable." His  hand  felt  in  his  pocket  and  I  raised  a 
loud,  tearful  howl: 

"  Money!  Is  it  money  you're  offering?  What's 
money  to  me  whose  heart  you've  broken?  " 

"  I  don't  see  no  camera  man,"  came  the  messenger 
boy's  voice. 

"  Aw,  he's  in  one  of  them  wagons,"  said  the  other. 
"  I've  seen  'em  in  wagons." 

The  perspiration  was  on  Willitts'  forehead  in  beads, 
he  was  whitening  round  the  mouth.  Putting  his  face 
close  down  to  mine  he  breathed  out  through  his  teeth: 

"  What  in  'ell  do  you  want?  " 

"  You!  "  I  cried  and  out  of  the  tail  of  my  eye  I  saw 
a  taxi  shoot  round  the  corner  from  Fifth  Avenue.  Wil- 
litts drew  away  from  me,  shrunk  together  for  a  race. 
I  saw  it  and  I  knew  even  now,  with  O'Malley  plunging 
through  the  traffic,  it  might  be  too  late.  Embracing  is 
not  my  strong  suit,  no  man  but  my  lawful  husband  ever 
felt  my  arms  about  him.  But  duty's  a  strong  word 
with  me  and  then  my  sporting  blood  was  up.  So  with 

294 


my  teeth  set,  I  just  made  a  lunge  at  that  crook  and 
clasped  him  like  an  octopus. 

I  didn't  know  a  man  was  so  much  stronger  than  a 
woman.  Willitts  wasn't  much  taller  than  I  and  he 
was  a  thin  little  shrimp,  but  believe  me,  he  was  as  tough 
as  leather  and  as  slippery  as  an  eel.  I  could  see  the 
two  boys,  delighted,  drinking  it  in,  and  a  dray  man 
in  a  jumper,  drop  a  crate  and  come  up  on  the  run, 
bawling:  "  Say,  you  feller,  let  the  lady  alone,"  The 
boys  chorused  out :  "  Aw,  keep  out  —  it's  the  movies !  " 
Willitts  must  have  heard  too,  and  I  guess  he  saw  his 
chance,  for  he  suddenly  squirmed  one  arm  loose,  and 
whang !  came  a  blow  on  the  side  of  my  head.  It  might 
have  seemed  part  of  the  play  but  he  did  it  too  hard  — 
calculated  wrong  in  his  excitement.  I  let  go,  seeing 
everything  —  the  houses,  the  sky,  the  crowd  that  seemed 
to  start  up  out  of  the  pavements  —  whirling  round  and 
shot  over  with  zigzags.  There  was  a  roaring  noise 
in  my  ears  and  all  about,  and  I  dropped  over  into  some- 
body's arms,  things  getting  swimmy  and  dark. 

When  I  came  out  of  it  I  was  sitting  on  a  packing  box 
with  a  man  fanning  me  and  O'Malley,  red  as  a  tomato 
and  Willitts  the  color  of  ashes  in  the  middle  of  a  mob. 
There  was  a  terrible  hubbub,  people  jamming  together, 
the  wagons  stopped  and  the  drivers  yelling  to  know 
what  was  up,  heads  out  of  every  window,  and  then 
two  policemen,  fighting  their  way  through.  I  felt 

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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

queer,  sickish,  and  as  if  the  muscles  of  my  face  were 
all  slack  so  my  mouth  wouldn't  stay  shut.  But  the 
gentleman  fanning  me  acted  awful  kind  and  a  clerk 
came  out  of  a  store  with  ice  water  and  a  wet  handker- 
chief that  he  patted  soft  on  the  side  of  my  head. 

I  could  see  O'Malley  and  the  policeman  (they'd  come 
from  headquarters  I  heard  afterward)  go  off  into  a 
vestibule  with  Willitts  and  the  crowd  that  couldn't 
get  a  look-in  came  squeezing  round  me,  heads  peering 
up  over  heads.  They'd  got  the  idea  that  Willitts  was 
my  husband,  seeming  to  think  only  a  lawful  spouse 
would  dare  to  hit  a  woman  before  witnesses  in  the 
public  street.  The  guys  in  the  front  were  explaining 
it  to  the  guys  in  the  back  and  calling  Willitts  names 
I  couldn't  put  down  in  these  refined  pages. 

It  got  me  laughing,  especially  when  an  old  Jew  who 
had  been  sizing  me  up  like  a  piece  of  goods  nodded 
slow  and  solemn  and  said :  "  And  she  ain'd  zo  bad 
lookin'  neither."  I  burst  right  out  at  that  and  the 
man  with  the  fan  waved  his  arms  at  them,  shouting: 

"  Give  way  there  —  back  —  back !  She  wants  air 
—  she's  hysterical.  She's  gone  through  more  than  she 
can  bear." 

Gee,  how  I  laughed! 

Presently  in  the  center  of  a  surging  mass  we  crowded 
our  way  to  the  taxi,  the  policemen  going  in  front  and 
hitting  round  light  with  their  clubs.  O'Malley  with 

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Willitts  handcuffed  to  him  got  in  the  back  seat,  me  op- 
posite, with  my  hat  off,  holding  the  handkerchief  against 
my  head.  As  we  pulled  out  I  looked  back  over  the  sea 
of  faces  and  caught  the  eye  of  one  of  the  policemen. 
He  straightened  up,  very  serious  and  dignified,  and 
saluted. 


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CHAPTER  XXVI 

THE    COUNTER    PLOT 

FERGUSON'S   knock  on   Suzanne's   door   was 
promptly  answered  by  the  lady  herself,  still 
in  her  hat  and  wrap.     She  clutched  at  him  as 
she  had  done  when  he  came  to  'her  in  her  dark  hour, 
drawing  him  into  the  room  and  gasping  her  news.     He 
was  in  no  mood  to  follow  her  ramblings  and,  as  soon 
as  she  spoke  of  a  letter,  interrupted  her  with  a  brusque 
demand  for  it.     After  he  had  mastered  its  contents  he 
told  her  to  'phone  at  once  to  Larkin  that  it  was  all 
right,  and  while  she  delivered  the  message,  stood  by 
studying  the  paper.     When  she  turned  back  to  him 
he  laid  his  hands  on  her  shoulders  and  looked  into  her 
eyes.     The  touch  that  once  would  have  sent  the  blood 
burning  to  her  cheeks  called  up  no  responsive  thrill  now : 
"  This  lets  you  out  —  it's  the  end  of  your  responsi- 
bility.    Your  part  now  is  to  be  quiet  and  wait.     To- 
morrow night  you'll  have  Bebita  back.     Just  nail  that 
up  in  your  mind  and  keep  your  eyes  on  it." 
"  Back  where  ?     Will  you  bring  her  here  ?  " 
It  was  so  like  her  —  so  indicative  of  a  mental  atti- 
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tilde  invariably  small  and  personal,  that  he  could  have 
smiled : 

"  I  can't  say,  but  probably  Grasslands.  The  end 
of  the  route  laid  down  isn't  so  far  from  there." 

"  Shall  I  go  back  to  Grasslands?  " 

He  pondered  a  moment,  then  decided  it  was  wiser  to 
trust  nothing  to  her,  even  so  simple  a  matter  as  her 
withdrawal  to  the  country. 

"  No,  stay  where  you  are.  There'd  be  a  lot  of  ques- 
tioning if  you  went,  bothersome,  hard  to  answer. 
When  we  have  her  I'll  let  you  know.  For  the  rest  of 
this  afternoon  I'll  be  in  town,  in  my  room  here  on  the 
floor  below.  If  anything  of  moment  should  happen 
send  for  me,  but  don't  unless  it's  vital.  I'll  be  busy 
getting  things  ready.  Be  silent,  be  grave,  be  hopeful 
—  that's  all  you  have  to  do  now." 

He  left  her,  going  directly  to  his  room  on  a  lower 
floor  of  the  hotel.  She  felt  numb  and  dazed,  wonder- 
ing how  she  was  to  live  through  the  next  twenty-four 
hours.  Her  parents  returned  from  their  drive  and 

close  on  their  entrance  came  a  communication  from  the 
i 

Whitney  office,  saying  the  jewels  had  been  found  and 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Janney  were  wanted  downtown.  In  the 
midst  of  their  bustling  excitement  she  sat  mute,  follow- 
ing their  movements  with  vacant  eyes.  She  saw  them 
leave  in  agitated  haste,  Mr.  Janney  forgetful  of  her,  her 
mother  throwing  out  phrases  of  comfort  as  she  hurried 

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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

to  the  door.  She  was  glad  when  they  were  gone  and 
she  could  be  still,  draw  all  her  energies  inward  in  the 
fight  for  endurance  and  courage. 

His  coat  off,  the  windows  wide  for  such  breaths  of  air 
as  floated  across  the  heated  roofs,  Ferguson  paced 
back  and  forth  with  a  long,  even  stride.  His  uncer- 
tainty was  ended,  the  tension  relaxed;  he  stood  face  to 
face  with  the  event  and  measured  it. 

His  assurances  to  Suzanne  that  he  would  make  no 
attempt  to  apprehend  the  kidnapers  had  been  sops 
thrown  to  pacify  her  terror.  He  had  no  more  inten- 
tion of  a  supine  acquiescence  than  Mrs.  Janney  would 
have  had.  Beyond  the  clearing  of  Esther,  stood  out  the 
man's  desire  to  bring  to  justice  the  perpetrators  of  a 
foul  and  dastardly  deed.  Now,  with  their  cards  laid 
on  the  table,  it  rose  higher,  burned  into  a  steady,  hot 
blaze  of  rage  and  resolution. 

But  between  his  desire  and  its  fulfilment  stretched 
a  maze  of  difficulties.  He  saw  at  once  what  Larkin  had 
seen  —  that  their  plan  was  as  nearly  impregnable  as 
such  a  plan  could  be.  Though  he  knew  every  mile  of 
the  country  they  had  selected,  he  knew  that  the  chances 
of  waylaying  or  flanking  them  were  ten  to  one  against 
him.  Numerous  roads,  north  and  south,  led  from  the 
Cresson  Pike,  some  to  the  shore  drive  along  the  Sound, 
some  inland  crossing  the  various  highways  that  threaded 
the  center  of  the  Island.  Any  one  of  these  might  be 

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chosen  as  the  road  down  which  their  car  would  turn, 
and  any  one  of  them,  winding  through  woods  and 
lonely  tracts  of  country,  would  offer  avenues  of  escape. 

He  thought  of  stationing  men  along  the  designated 
route  but  it  would  take  an  army,  impossible  to  gather 
at  such  short  notice  and  impossible  to  place  without 
his  opponent's  cognizance.  Hundreds  of  men  could 
not  be  picketed  along  a  ten-mile  stretch  of  highway 
without  those  who  were  the  authors  of  so  daring  a 
scheme  being  aware.  They  would  be  on  the  watch;  no 
move  of  such  magnitude  could  be  hidden  from  them.  It 
would  be  the  same  if  he  called  in  the  police.  They 
would  know  it,  and  what  could  the  police  do  that  he 
could  not  do  more  secretly,  more  efficiently? 

A  following  car  was  also  out  of  the  question.  There 
was  no  reason  to  suppose  that  they  would  not  have 
several  cars  of  their  own,  passing  and  repassing  him, 
making  sure  that  he  was  unescorted.  The  threats  of 
injury  to  the  child  he  had  set  down  as  efforts  to  re- 
duce Suzanne  to  a  paralyzed  silence.  But  if  they  saw 
an  attempt  was  on  foot  to  trap  them  they  might  not 
show  up  at  all  —  go  as  they  had  come,  unknown  and 
unsighted,  their  car  lost  among  the  procession  of 
motors  that  passed  along  the  Cresson  Pike.  Then 
taken  fright,  they  might  not  dare  another  effort,  might 
drop  out  of  sight  with  their  hostage  unredeemed.  A 
chill  crept  over  the  young  man,  he  had  a  dread  vision 

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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

of  the  old  people's  despair,  of  Suzanne  distraught, 
crazed  perhaps.  It  behooved  him  to  run  no  risks; 
to  make  sure  of  the  child  was  his  first  duty,  to  strike 
at  her  abductors  his  second. 

The  course  he  finally  decided  on  was  the  only  one 
that  made  Bebita's  restoration  certain  and  offered  a 
possibility  of  routing  his  opponents.  At  the  hour 
named  he  would  place  on  the  road  six  motors,  driven 
by  his  own  chauffeurs  and  garage  men,  and  entering 
the  turnpike  at  intervals  of  ten  minutes.  Three  would 
start  from  its  eastern  end,  meeting  him  en  route,  three 
from  its  western,  strung  out  behind  him,  now  and 
then  speeding  up,  overhauling  him  and  passing  on.  Of 
a  summer's  Saturday  night  the  Cresson  Pike  was  full 
of  vehicles,  and  the  six,  merged  in  the  shifting  stream, 
would  suggest  no  connection  with  him  or  his  mission. 

Where  his  hope  of  success  lay  was  that  one  of  these 
satellites,  to  whom  the  character  and  marking  of  his 
roadster  would  be  visible  at  some  distance,  might  be 
within  sight  when  he  was  signaled  and  see  him  turn  into 
the  branch  road.  Its  business  would  be  to  wait  until 
another  of  the  fleet  came  up,  pass  the  word,  and  the 
two  follow  on  his  tracks.  This  halt  would  give  the 
kidnapers  time  to  complete  the  transaction,  get  the 
money,  give  up  the  child,  and  bind  him.  If  they  were 
interrupted  the  situation  would  be  too  perilous  to  per- 
mit of  delay  —  he  had  thought  of  an  attack  on  the 

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child  —  and  if  they  had  finished  and  gone  the  rescuing 
cars  could  fly  in  pursuit. 

He  was  far  from  satisfied  with  it ;  it  was  very  differ- 
ent from  the  schemes  he  had  had  in  his  head  before 
he  measured  his  resourcefulness  against  theirs.  He 
dropped  into  a  chair,  sunk  in  moody  contemplation  of 
its  deficiencies.  The  men  he  had  to  rely  on  were  not  the 
right  kind,  loyal  and  willing  enough,  but  without  the 
boldness  and  initiative  necessary  to  such  an  enterprise. 
He  wanted  a  lieutenant,  some  one  he  could  look  to 
for  quick,  independent  action  if  the  affair  took  an  un- 
expected turn.  You  couldn't  tell  how  it  might  develop, 
and  he,  pledged  to  his  ungrateful  role,  would  be  power- 
less to  meet  new  demands,  might  not  know  they  had 
arisen. 

He  was  roused  by  a  knock  on  the  door.  It  surprised 
him  for  his  presence  in  the  city  was  unknown  except 
to  his  own  household  and  the  Janney  family.  Then 
he  thought  of  Suzanne  coming  down  to  him  to  pour 
out  her  fears,  and  his  "  Come  in  "  was  harsh  and  un- 
welcoming. In  answer  to  it  the  door  opened  and 
Chapman  Price  entered. 

Ferguson  rose,  looking  at  his  visitor,  startled  and 
silent.  His  surprise  was  caused  by  the  man's  appear- 
ance, by  a  fierce  disturbance  in  the  handsome  face,  pale 
under  its  swarthy  tan,  by  the  eyes,  agate-black  and 
gleaming  in  a  bovine  glare.  He  had  seen  Chapman 

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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

angry  but  never  just  like  this,  and  from  a  state,  keyed 
to  anticipate  any  new  shock  from  any  direction,  said: 

"  What's  happened  now?  " 

Price  had  closed  the  door  and  backing  up,  leaned 
against  it.  His  answer  came,  hoarse  and  broken: 

"  I've  been  to  those  hounds,  the  Whitneys." 

It  illuminated  the  ignorance  of  his  listener,  who 
was  readjusting  his  mind  for  a  reply  when  the  other 
burst  into  a  storm  of  invective  against  the  lawyers  and 
the  Janneys.  It  broke  like  a  released  torrent,  sen- 
tences stumbling  on  one  another,  curses  mingled  with 
wild  accusations,  its  cause  revealed  in  a  final  cry  of: 
"  Stolen  —  my  child  —  kidnaped  —  gone !  " 

Through  Ferguson's  head,  full  of  weightier  matters, 
flashed  a  vision  of  Chapman  raging  at  the  Whitneys 
and  a  wonder  as  to  what  effect  his  rage  had  had.  Kick- 
ing a  chair  forward  he  spoke  with  a  dry  quietness : 

"  That's  all  right  —  you  needn't  bother  to  go  over 
it.  Pull  yourself  together  and  sit  down." 

But  he  might  as  well  have  counseled  self-control  to 
an  angry  lion.  The  man,  still  standing  against  the 
door,  jerked  out: 

"  I  can  get  nothing  from  any  of  them.  They  know 
nothing.  They've  Jet  all  this  time  pass  —  following 
me,  suspecting  me.  I  don't  know  why  I  didn't  kill 
them ! " 

"Probably  because  you've  sense  enough  left  not  to 
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complicate  what's  complicated  enough  already.  What 
brought  you  here?  " 

He  seemed  unable  to  answer  any  direct  question,  star- 
ing with  dilated  eyes,  his  thoughts  fastened  on  the 
subject  of  his  pain: 

"  Spent  a  week  —  lost  a  week !  Good  God,  Dick, 
they  ought  to  be  held  responsible.  Where  is  she?  Not 
one  of  them  knows  —  not  an  effort  made.  She's  gone, 
lost,  been  stolen,  spirited  away,  while  they've  been  sit- 
ting in  their  office,  turning  their  d d  detectives 

loose  on  me." 

"  Look  here,  Chapman,  I'm  not  saying  you're  not 
right,  but  the  milk's  spilled  and  it's  no  good  trying 
to  pick  it  up.  If  you'll  sit  down  and  listen  to  me  — " 

Price  cut  him  off,  leaving  his  post  by  the  door  to 
begin  a  distracted  striding  about  the  room: 

"  I  couldn't  stand  it  —  when  I'd  got  it  through  me 
I  left.  Then  I  tried  to  get  hold  of  Suzanne  —  tele- 
phoned her,  here  somewhere  in  this  place.  She's  half 
crazy,  I  think  —  I  don't  wonder,  she's  fonder  of  Bebita 
than  anything  in  the  world.  She  wouldn't  see  me,  cry- 
ing and  moaning  out  that  she  couldn't,  that  she  couldn't 
bear  any  more.  And  when  I  begged  —  I  thought  that 
she  and  I  might  arrange  some  combined  effort,  that 
whatever  we  had  been  we  were  partners  now  in  this  — 
she  told  me  to  come  to  you,  that  you  could  tell  me 
more,  that  you  could  help."  He  swerved  round  on 

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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

Ferguson,  the  hard  passion  of  his  glance  softened  to 
a  despairing  urgency,  "  For  God's  sake,  do.  I'm  penni- 
less, I  know  almost  nothing  except  that  I've  got  to 
act  now,  at  once,  before  any  more  time  is  lost.  Give 
me  a  hand,  help  me  to  find  her." 

Ferguson's  voice  had  an  element  of  endurance  in 
its  level  tones: 

"  That's  just  what  I  want  to  do.  And  if  you'll  stop 
talking  and  let  me  explain,  you'll  see  I'm  on  the  way  to 
do  it.  But  it's  not  my  help  that  you  want,  it's  the 
other  way  round  —  /  want  yours." 

It  was  almost  dark  and  Ferguson  turned  on  the  lights. 
Under  their  thin,  white  radiance,  the  two  men  sat, 
drawn  close  to  the  open  window,  and  Ferguson  told 
his  story.  The  other  listened,  the  storm  of  his  anger 
gone,  his  dark  face  growing  keen  and  hard  as  he 
heard  the  plan  unfolded.  An  hour  later  they  parted, 
Price  to  go  to  Council  Oaks  and  lie  low  there  until  the 
following  night  when  he  would  command  the  fleet  of 
motors  in  the  chase  along  the  Cresson  Turnpike. 


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CHAPTER  XXVII 

NIGHT    ON    THE    CRESSON    PIKE 

THE  night  fell  stifling  and  airless,  unfortunately 
favorable  for  the  kidnapers,  as  the  sky  was 
covered  with  clouds  and  the  country  wrapped 
in  a  thick  darkness. 

At  half-past  eight  the  roadster,  with  Ferguson  driv- 
ing, glided  into  the  little  village  of  North  Cresson  and 
swung  out  into  the  Cresson  Turnpike.  Ten  minutes 
behind  him  was  his  touring  car  with  Saunders,  his 
chauffeur,  at  the  wheel.  Twenty  minutes  later  a  limou- 
sine was  to  strike  into  the  pike  from  a  road  just  be- 
yond the  village,  and  a  runabout,  emerging  from  an 
opposite  direction,  complete  the  chain.  At  the  other 
end  of  the  ten-mile  limit  Chapman  Price  in  the  black 
racer,  was  running  up  from  the  shore  drive,  with  two 
satellites,  one  his  own  motor,  one  a  hired  Ford,  strung 
out  behind  him. 

Of  a  hot  summer  night  at  this  hour  the  pike  was  alive 
with  autos;  returning  holiday-makers,  city  dwellers 
taking  a  spin  in  the  country  to  cool  off,  joy  riders 
rioting  by,  belated  business  men  speeding  to  the  sea- 

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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

side  for  the  Sunday  rest.  They  bore  down  on  Ferguson 
like  a  procession  of  fleeing  monsters  with  round,  goblin 
eyes  staring  in  affright.  They  came  from  behind, 
swinging  across  his  path  in  a  blur  of  dust,  laughter 
and  shrill  cries  rising  from  their  crowded  tonneaus. 
Keeping  to  their  narrow  track  between  the  borders  of 
the  fields  they  were  like  a  turbulent,  flashing  torrent, 
dividing  the  darkness  with  a  stream  of  streaked  radi- 
ance, cutting  the  silence  with  a  current  of  continuous 
sound. 

Ferguson's  glance  ranged  ahead,  dazzled  by  the  glare 
of  advancing  lamps  that  enlarged  on  his  vision,  grew 
to  a  blinding  haze  and  swept  by.  He  could  see  little, 
blackness  and  brightness  alternating,  the  motors  emerg- 
ing as  dim  solidities,  realized  for  a  passing  moment, 
then  gone.  Once  a  small  car,  cutting  across  his  bows 
from  a  side  road,  made  him  slacken,  but  it  slowed  round 
showing  the  gnarled  face  of  a  farmer  with  a  fat  woman 
on  the  seat  beside  him  and  a  bunch  of  children  behind. 

As  he  went  on  the  press  of  vehicles  thinned,  the  line 
of  the  road  showed  bare  for  longer  stretches.  The 
runabout  overhauled  him,  kept  by  his  side  for  a  few 
yards,  then  drew  ahead,  its  red  tail  lantern  receding  with 
an  even,  skimming  smoothness  ;  a  spot,  a  spark,  nothing. 
He  calculated  he  had  covered  nearly  half  the  distance 
when  the  black  racer  passed  in  a  soft,  purring  rush,  his 
eye,  through  the  yellow  fog  that  preceded  it,  catching 

308 


Night  on  the  Cresson  Pike 


a  glimpse  of  Price's  face.  Then  came  a  long,  straight 
level  between  fields  where  only  two  cars  went  by,  both 
going  cityward.  He  looked  back  and  tried  to  see  the 
road  behind  him,  straining  his  vision  for  a  following 
shape,  but  the  darkness  lay  close  and  unbroken,  no 
goblin  eyes  peering  through  it  in  anxious  pursuit. 

The  road  took  a  dive  into  woods,  black  as  a  cavern, 
the  air  breathless.  It  wound  in  sharp  curves,  his  lamps 
sending  their  swinging  rays  into  thickets,  then  out  again 
on  a  hilltop,  and  down,  swooping  with  a  long,  smooth 
glide  into  a  valley.  Here  the  touring  car  passed  him 
and  he  met  a  limousine,  traveling  at  a  pace  as  sober  as 
his  own,  in  its  lit  interior  two  men  talking;  after  that 
a  farmer's  wagon  drawn  up  against  the  roadside 
grasses,  the  horse  prancing  in  fractious  fear.  Then 
nobody  —  a  wide  strip  of  open  country  with  the  sky 
setting  down  like  an  arched  lid  over  the  low  circular 
surface  of  the  land. 

It  was  very  still  and  his  listening  ear  caught  the 
buzzing  hum  of  a  vehicle  behind  him.  This  time  he 
did  not  turn  but  drew  off  further  to  the  right,  and  a 
closed  coupe  swung  by,  with  the  jarring  rattle  of  an 
old  and  loose-geared  body.  He  was  on  the  alert  at 
once,  its  hooded  shape  suggesting  secrecy,  the  sur- 
rounding loneliness  apt  for  its  design.  Its  tail  light 
cast  a  bobbing,  crimson  blot  on  the  bed  and  he  saw  its 
back,  dust-grimmed  and  rusty,  and  the  numbered  ob- 

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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 


long  of  its  license  tag.  That  caused  his  expectancy  to 
drop  —  the  tag  stood  for  respectability  and  honest 
wayfaring,  then,  with  a  quickened  leap  of  his  heart,  he 
realized  that  its  speed  was  slackening.  It  slowed  down 
to  his  own  gait,  and  at  the  limit  of  his  lamp's  illumina- 
tion, moved  before  him,  a  square  bulk,  its  back  cut  by 
a  small  window.  He  felt  sure  now,  and  with  his  hand 
on  the  wheel  took  a  look  over  his  shoulder.  In  the  dis- 
tance, cresting  a  rise,  he  saw  two  golden  dots,  too  far 
for  a  speedy  overtaking,  and  even  if  that  were  possible 
he  had  no  reason  to  suppose  they  belonged  to  any  of 
his  followers. 

A  belt  of  woods  spread  across  the  way  and  the  road 
entered  it  as  if  tunneling  a  vault.  It  wound,  looped 
and  twisted,  tree  trunks  and  leafy  hollows  starting  out 
as  the  long  bright  tubes  swept  over  them.  As  one  of 
these,  slewing  wide  in  a  sharper  turn,  crossed  the  bank 
of  the  forward  car,  Ferguson  saw  an  arm  extended  and 
from  the  hand  a  white  spark  flash  twice.  Almost  im- 
mediately the  coupe  turned  to  the  left,  and  plunged  into 
a  by-way,  black  as  a  pocket,  the  woods'  thick  growth 
crowding  on  its  edges. 

The  roadbed  was  good  and  the  leading  car  accelerated 
its  speed  racing  onward  under  the  arching  boughs. 
Ferguson,  close  on  its  heels,  knew  that  the  sounds  of 
their  going  would  be  muffled  by  the  enshrouding  wood- 
land, absorbed  in  its  woven  density.  No  chance  either 

310 


Night  on  the  Cresson  Pike 


of  meeting  any  one;  the  way  was  one  of  those  forest 
trails,  sought  by  the  rich  on  their  afternoon  drives, 
but  at  night  deserted  by  all  but  the  birds  and  the 
squirrels.  Cursing  at  the  failure  of  his  schemes,  power- 
less now  to  protest  or  to  retaliate,  he  followed  until  he 
knew  by  a  freshening  of  the  air  that  they  were  near 
the  Sound.  The  coupe's  speed  began  to  lessen  and 
it  came  to  a  halt. 

Ferguson  drew  up  a  few  rods  behind  it.  He  could 
see  the  trees  about  him  picked  out  in  detail  and  be- 
hind them  the  engulfing  darkness.  The  machine  in 
front  still  seemed  to  shake  and  vibrate;  he  caught  the 
sound  of  a  step  and  then  a  voice,  a  man's,  deep  and 
low-keyed : 

"  This  is  the  place.     Get  out." 

He  jumped  to  the  ground,  discerning  a  shape  by  the 
coupe's  door.  He  advanced,  peering  through  his  lan- 
tern's intervening  glare,  and  made  out  it  was  alone. 
Stung  with  a  quick  fear,  he  halted  and  said. 

"Where's  the  child?" 

"  Here.     Put  the  money  on  the  rock  to  your  right." 

The  man  came  forward,  a  raised  hand  pointing  to 
where  the  top  of  a  rock  showed  among  the  wayside 
grasses.  From  the  lifted  hand,  the  light  struck  a 
silvery  gleam,  touching  the  barrel  of  a  revolver.  Fer- 
guson, without  moving  said: 

"  I  must  see  her  first." 

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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

He  thought  he  detected  a  moment's  hesitation,  then 
the  man  stepped  back  to  the  car  and  called  a  gruff: 

"  All  right  —  quick  —  look." 

He  swung  the  coupe  door  open  and  from  an  electric 
torch  in  his  left  hand  sent  a  ray  into  the  interior.  The 
white  shaft  pierced  the  murk  like  a  pointing  finger. 
Its  circular  end,  a  spot  of  livid  brightness,  played  on 
Bebita  curled  on  the  floor  asleep.  Ferguson  saw  her 
as  if  cut  from  an  encompassing  blackness,  transparently 
clear  like  a  picture  suspended  in  a  void.  Then  the  ray 
was  extinguished,  and  as  he  stood,  blinking  against  the 
obscurity,  heard  the  man's  voice,  "  The  money  —  on 
the  rock  there,"  and  caught  the  gleam  of  the  revolver 
barrel  level  with  his  eyes. 

He  walked  to  the  rock  and  laid  the  money,  in  an 
envelope  clasped  with  rubber  bands,  on  its  flat  surface. 
The  whole  thing  seemed  to  him  like  a  cheap  melodrama 
and  he  could  have  laughed  as  he  righted  himself  and 
saw  the  round,  shining  end  of  the  revolver  covering 
him,  and  the  silent  figure  behind  it. 

"  Come  on,"  he  said,  "  get  to  the  rest.  You  tie  me  — 
where  ?  " 

"  The  oak  —  behind  you." 

It  was  a  large-sized  tree  back  from  the  edge  of  the 
road,  and  he  walked  to  it  hearing  the  man  trampling 
the  underbrush  in  his  wake.  He  had  a  sense  of  a  dream- 
like quality  in  the  whole  fantastic  performance,  as  if 


Ferguson  saw  him  in  silhouette,  a  large,  humped  body 
with  bent  head 


Night  on  the  Cresson  Pike 


he  might  wake  up  suddenly  and  find  he'd  been  having  a 
nightmare. 

But  there  was  nothing  dreamlike  in  the  force  with 
which  the  rope  was  thrown  about  him  and  tightened 
round  the  tree.  As  he  felt  it  strained  across  his  chest, 
lashed  round  his  legs,  girding  him  to  the  trunk  close 
at  its  bark,  he  recognized  expertness  and  strength  in  the 
hands  that  bound  him.  The  thing  was  done  with 
extraordinary  speed  and  deftness,  and  ended  by  a  lump 
of  waste,  that  smelled  of  gasoline,  being  thrust  into  his 
mouth. 

The  heavy  tread  moved  again  through  the  under- 
brush, the  man  passed  to  the  rock,  and,  his  back  to 
Ferguson,  crouched  on  the  light's  edges  counting  the 
money.  Ferguson  saw  him  in  silhouette,  a  large, 
humped  bod}1  with  bent  head.  This  done,  he  went  to 
the  door  of  the  coupe  and  lifted  out  the  child.  He 
had  some  difficulty  in  getting  hold  of  her,  muttered 
an  oath,  then  drew  her  out,  carried  her  to  the  roadside 
and  set  her  down  on  the  grass.  There  was  a  moment 
when  he  crossed  the  full  gush  of  illumination  and  Fer- 
guson had  a  clear  glimpse  of  him,  a  chauffeur's  cap  on 
his  head,  the  lower  part  of  his  face  covered  by  a  thick 
beard.  Returning  to  his  car,  he  jumped  in.  Its  lurch- 
ing start  broke  into  a  sudden  flight,  it  rushed;  Fergu- 
son could  hear  the  bounding  of  stones,  the  creaking 
and  wrenching  of  its  body  as  it  hurtled  down  the  road. 

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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

Silence  settled,  the  deep,  dreaming  quiet  of  the  woods. 
The  young  man  tried  to  struggle,  to  writhe  and  work 
himself  loose,  but  his  bonds  held  fast,  and  he  found 
himself  choked  for  air,  stifling  and  snorting  over  his 
gag.  He  gave  it  up  and  looked  at  the  child.  By 
straining  his  eyes  he  could  just  see  her,  a  small,  relaxed 
bod}r,  one  hand  outflung,  her  profile,  held  in  a  trance- 
like  sleep,  marble  white  against  the  grass.  A  hideous 
fear  assailed  him :  —  she  might  be  dead.  Some  drug 
had  evidently  been  administered  to  keep  her  quiet  — 
an  overdose!  He  wrenched  and  pressed  at  the  cords, 
almost  strangled  and  had  to  stop,  the  sweat  pouring 
into  his  eyes,  his  heart  pounding  on  the  rope  that  cut 
into  his  chest.  He  called  on  his  will,  felt  himself  stead- 
ied, his  smothered  breath  came  easier,  the  only  sound  on 
the  silence. 

Then  another  broke  upon  it,  far  away,  from  the  direc- 
tion of  the  Sound  —  a  thin,  clear  report.  He  stiffened, 
all  his  faculties  strained  to  listen,  heard  it  again,  sev- 
eral in  a  spattering  run,  dropping  distinct,  like  lit- 
tle globules  piercing  the  stillness.  "  Shooting !  "  he 
thought  with  a  wild  surge  of  excitement,  "  out  toward 
the  water  —  Oh,  Lord,  have  they  got  him  ?  " 

He  listened  again,  but  heard  nothing.  And  then 
from  the  ground  rose  a  moaning  breath,  a  sleepy  cry 
—  Bebita  was  awake.  He  wrenched  his  head  till  he 
could  see  her  plainly,  her  face  turned  upward,  the  eyes 


Night  on  the  Cresson  Pike 


still  closed,  the  forehead  puckered  with  a  look  of  pain. 
He  tried  to  emit  some  word,  heard  it  only  as  a  guttural 
mutter,  and  watching,  saw  her  stir,  the  outstretched  arm 
sway  upward,  her  eyes  open,  dazed  and  aeavy,  and  heard 
her  drowsy  whimper  of,  "  Mummy,"  and  then,  "  Oh, 
Annie,  where  are  you?  "  Slowly,  her  head  moving  as 
her  glance  swept  the  unfamiliar  prospect,  she  sat  up. 

He  remembered  the  next  few  minutes  as  something 
incredibly  horrible,  the  child's  consciousness  clearing 
to  an  overwhelming  fear.  She  looked  about,  saw  him, 
scrambled  to  her  feet  and  began  to  scream,  shrill,  ter- 
rified cries,  crouching  away  from  him  like  a  scared  ani- 
mal. She  made  a  rush  for  the  motor,  climbing  in, 
cowering  down,  calling  on  the  names  that  meant  safety: 
"  Mummy  !  Oh,  Mummy  !  Gramp,  Daddy  —  Come ! 
Come  to  me !  " 

An  answer  came,  the  hollow  bray  of  a  motor  horn, 
the  shout  of  a  man's  voice,  then  the  twin  spears  of  light, 
the  whirring  buzz  of  a  machine  shooting  out  of  the 
road's  dark  tunnel  —  Chapman  Price  in  the  black  car. 
He  leapt  out  and  ran  to  her,  caught  her  up,  strained 
her  to  him,  held  her  head  back  to  look  into  her  face, 
kissed  her,  babbled  words  of  love  that  broke  on  his  lips 
and  he  hid  his  face  on  her  neck.  She  twined  round 
him,  arms  and  legs  clutching  and  clinging,  sobbing  out, 
"Popsy,  Popsy !  "  over  and  over. 


315 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

THE    MAN    IN    THE    BOAT 

PRICE  took  Bebita  to  Grasslands,  handed  her 
over  to  Annie  and  telephoned  in  to  the  Janncys. 
Then  he  left  to  rejoin  Ferguson  who  was  to 
go  to  the  shore  and  find  out  the  meaning  of  the  shots. 
Price,  missing  the  leading  car,  had  decided  that  it  had 
turned  from  the  pike  and  scouring  the  side  roads  in  a 
blind  chase  had  heard  the  shots,  agreeing  with  Fergu- 
son that  they  came  from  the  direction  of  the  Sound. 

Ferguson  went  that  way,  driving  at  breakneck  speed. 
He  had  almost  reached  the  shore,  felt  the  water's  cool- 
ness, saw  the  wood's  vista  widen  when,  to  avoid  a  deep 
rut,  he  slewed  his  machine  to  the  left.  The  lights  pene- 
trated a  thicket,  revealing  behind  the  woven  foliage,  a 
dark,  large  body,  black  among  the  tangled  green.  He 
drew  up,  peering  at  it  —  it  was  not  a  rock ;  its  side 
showed  smooth  through  the  boughs.  He  jumped  out 
and  pushed  his  way  through  the  bushes.  It  was  a  taxi, 
its  lamps  extinguished,  broken  branches  and  crushed 
foliage  marking  its  track. 

It  gave  evidence  of  a  violent  flight  and  a  hasty  deser- 
316 


The  Man  in  the  Boat 


tion,  careened  to  one  side,  its  door  open,  a  rug  hang- 
ing over  the  step.  He  went  to  the  back,  struck  a 
match  and  looked  at  the  license  tag  —  the  number  was 
that  of  the  motor  he  had  followed.  Covered  by  the 
darkness,  driven  deep  among  the  trees,  it  could  easily 
have  passed  unnoticed  until  the  daylight  betrayed  it. 

The  plan  of  escape  revealed  a  new  artfulness  —  the 
man  had  made  off  either  on  foot  or  in  another  vehicle. 
It  accounted  for  the  license  —  he  knew  his  pursuers 
would  mark  it  and  look  for  a  car  carrying  that  num- 
ber. In  the  face  of  such  a  crafty  completeness  of  de- 
tail the  young  man  felt  himself  reduced  to  a  baffled  in- 
decision. Cogitating  on  the  various  routes  his  quarry 
might  have  taken,  he  ran  out  on  to  the  shore  road  and 
here  again  halted. 

Before  him  the  Sound  lay,  a  smooth  dark  floor,  along 
which  glided  the  small  golden  glimmerings  of  river  craft. 
He  looked  up  and  down  the  road,  discernible  as  a  gray 
path  between  the  upstanding  solidity  of  the  woods  and 
the  flat  solidity  of  the  water.  Some  distance  in  front  a 
black  blot  took  shape  under  his  exploring  glance  as  a 
small  house.  He  started  the  car  and  ran  toward  it, 
seeing  as  he  approached  a  dancing  yellow  spot  come 
from  behind  it  in  swaying  passage.  He  stopped,  the 
yellow  spot  steadied,  rose,  swung  aloft  —  a  lantern  in 
the  hands  of  a  man,  half  dressed,  who  came  toward 
him  spying  out  from  under  the  upraised  glow. 

317 

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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

Ferguson  spoke  abruptly  : 

"  Did  you  hear  shots  a  while  ago  ?  " 

The  man  setting  his  lantern  on  the  ground,  spoke  with 
the  slow  phlegm  of  the  native : 

"  I  did  —  close  here.  I  bin  down  to  the  waterside 
seein'  if  I  could  make  out  what  they  was." 

The  house  was  skirted  by  a  balcony  along  which  a 
second  light  now  came  into  view ;  this  time  from  a  lamp 
carried  in  the  hand  of  a  woman.  She  was  wrapped  in 
a  bed  gown,  a  straggle  of  loose  hair  hanging  round  a 
frightened  face. 

"  We  was  asleep  and  they  woke  us  up.  They  was 
right  off  there,"  she  jerked  her  head  to  the  Sound  be- 
hind her. 

"  From  the  water?  "  Ferguson  asked. 

"  Sounded  that  way,"  the  man  took  it  up.  "  We 
wasn't  sure  at  first  what  it  was ;  then  they  come  crack, 
crack,  one  after  the  other,  from  somewheres  beyont. 
My  wife,  she  said  it  was  motor  boats,  said  she  heard 
'em  off  across  the  water.  But  by  the  time  we  got 
something  on  and  was  outside  it  was  over.  There 
wasn't  no  more  and  we  couldn't  see  nothing.  I  bin 
down  on  the  beach  lookin'  round,  thinkin'  they  might 
have  come  from  there,  but  I  ain't  found  no  tracks  or 
signs  of  anybody." 

"  I  was  wonderin',"  said  the  woman,  "  if  may  be  it 
was  that  patrol  boat  —  the  one  they  got  this  sum- 

318 


The  Man  in  the  Boat 


mer  runnin'  along  the  shore  for  thieves  —  That  they 
caught  a  sight  of  one  and  went  after  him." 

Ferguson  was  silent  for  a  moment  then  said: 

"  Is  there  any  place  round  here  where  a  boat  could 
be  hidden,  deep  enough  water  for  a  launch?  " 

The  man  answered: 

"  Yes,  right  down  the  road  a  step  there's  a  cove  and 
an  old  dock ;  used  to  belong  to  the  folks  that  lived 
on  the  bluff  but  the  house  burned  down  a  while  b£.ck 
and  ain't  been  rebuilt  and  no  one's  used  the  dock  since. 
A  feller  could  hide  a  boat  there  fine ;  it's  all  overgrown 
so  you  can't  see  it  unless  you  know  where  it  is." 

"  I'd  like  to  take  a  look  at  it,"  said  Ferguson. 
"  Come  along  with  the  lantern." 

The  place  was  only  a  few  yards  from  the  mouth  of 
the  wood  road.  Trees  and  shrubs  sheltered  it,  con- 
cealing with  their  rank  growth  a  small  wharf,  rotted 
and  sagging  to  the  water  line.  The  lantern  rays  re- 
vealed a  recent  presence,  scattered  leaves  and  twigs  on 
the  wooden  planking,  the  long  marshy  grasses  showing 
a  track  from  the  road  to  the  wharf's  edge. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  the  native,  much  impressed ;  "  some 
one's  been  here  to-night  and  not  s'long  ago  either. 
You  can  see  where  the  dew's  been  swep'  off  the  grasses 
right  to  the  water." 

Ferguson  said  nothing;  he  now  saw  the  whole  plan 
of  escape  —  the  coupe  left  in  the  woods,  a  short  run 

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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

to  the  cove  where  a  boat  had  been  concealed,  the  get- 
away down  on  across  the  Sound.  What  had  the  shots 
meant?  Was  the  woman  right  in  thinking  the  police 
patrol  had  come  upon  the  fleeing  criminal?  And  if  they 
had  what  had  been  the  result? 

Lantern  in  hand,  the  man  at  his  heels,  he  crushed 
through  the  swampy  copse  to  the  shore.  There  his 
glance  swept  the  long  stretch  of  the  water,  sewn  in  the 
distance  with  a  pattern  of  moving  sparks.  Two  of 
them,  red  and  green,  stole  over  the  ebony  surface  toward 
him,  advancing  with  an  even,  gliding  smoothness,  pierc- 
ing and  steady,  like  the  eyes  of  a  stealthily  approach- 
ing animal,  fixing  him  with  a  meaning  scrutiny.  He 
snatched  up  the  lantern  and  ran  for  a  point  that  jutted 
out  in  a  pebbly  cape.  Standing  on  its  tip  he  raised 
and  waved  the  light,  letting  his  voice  ring  out  across 
the  stillness : 

"  Boat  ahoy !  " 

The  lights  drew  closer,  their  reflections  stabbing  down 
into  the  oily  depths,  gleam  below  gleam.  The  pulsing 
of  a  muffled  engine  came  with  them,  a  prow  took  shape, 
a  shine  of  wood  and  brass  above  the  lusterless  tide. 
Ferguson  called  again: 

"Who  are  you?" 

An  answer  rose  in  a  man's  surly  voice: 

"What's  that  to  you?" 

"A  good  deal.  I'm  Ferguson  of  Council  Oaks  and 
320 


The  Man  in  the  Boat 


I'm  looking  for  the  boat  that  fired  on  some  one  round 
here  about  an  hour  ago." 

The  voice  replied,  its  tone  changed  to  sudden  con- 
ciliation: 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Ferguson ;  couldn't  see  who  it  was.  We're 
what  you're  looking  for  —  the  police  patiol.  We  have 
the  launch  here  in  tow." 

"  Have  you  got  the  man?  " 

"  Yes,  sir.  He  didn't  answer  our  challenge  and  fired 
on  us.  We  chased  and  gave  it  back  to  him  —  a  run- 
ning fight.  One  of  us  got  him  —  he's  dead." 

"  Go  on  to  my  wharf ;  I'll  be  there  when  you  come." 

On  his  way  along  the  shore  road  he  met  Price,  paused 
for  a  quick  explanation,  and  the  two  cars  ran  at  a 
racing  clip  to  Ferguson's  wharf.  The  men  were  stand- 
ing on  its  end  when  the  police  boat  glided  into  the 
gush  of  light  that  fell  from  the  high  electric  lamps  at 
either  side  of  the  ship.  Behind  it,  lifted  and  dropped 
by  the  languid  wavelets,  was  a  launch,  a  covered  shape 
lying  on  the  floor. 

The  story  of  the  police  was  quickly  told.  The  night, 
dark  and  windless,  was  the  kind  chosen  by  the  water 
thieves  for  their  operations.  The  men  had  been  on 
the  watch  faring  noiselessly  with  engine  muffled  and 
hooded  lamps.  It  was  nearly  the  end  of  their  run,  a 
length  of  shore  with  few  estates,  when  they  saw  a  boat 
glide  from  a  part  of  the  beach  peculiarly  dark  and 

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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

deserted.  The  craft  carried  no  lights,  a  fact  that  in- 
stantly roused  their  suspicions,  and  they  waited.  As 
it  drew  out  for  the  open  water  they  challenged.  There 
was  no  answer,  but  a  sudden  acceleration  of  its  speed, 
shooting  by  them  like  a  streak  for  the  mid  reaches  of 
the  Sound. 

They  started  in  pursuit,  repeating  their  challenge  and 
then  an  order  to  lie  to.  Again  there  was  no  response 
and  they  clapped  on  top  speed  and  raced  in  its  wake. 
They  were  gaining  on  it  when,  in  answer  to  a  louder 
hail,  the  man  fired  on  them,  the  bullet  passing  between 
two  of  them  and  burying  itself  in  the  gunwale.  They 
replied  with  a  return  fire,  there  was  a  fusillade  of  shots, 
and  the  two  boats  sped  in  a  darkling  rush  across  the 
Sound.  They  knew  something  was  wrong  with  their 
opponent ;  his  launch  headed  in  a  straight  line  swept 
through  the  wash  of  steamers,  cut  across  the  bows  of 
tugs  and  river  craft,  rocking  like  a  cockleshell,  menaced 
by  destruction,  shouts  and  objurgations  following  its 
mad  course.  They  were  up  with  it,  almost  alongside 
on  the  last  lap.  He  made  no  answer  to  their  hails,  sat 
upright  and  motionless,  sat  so  when  his  bow  crashed 
against  the  rocks  of  the  Connecticut  shore.  They 
found  him  dead,  a  bullet  in  his  brain,  the  wheel  still 
gripped  in  his  hands. 

Ferguson  dropped  into  the  launch  and  drew  down  the 
coat  that  had  been  thrown  over  the  body.  The  face,  the 

322 


The  Man  in  the  Boat 


false  beard  gone,  was  handsome,  the  body  large  and 
powerful,  the  hands  fine  and  well  kept  —  it  was  not  the 
type  he  had  expected  to  see.  He  felt  in  the  pockets 
and  found  the  money  still  in  its  envelope,  clasped  by  the 
rubber  bands.  There  were  no  other  papers,  no  means 
of  identification.  After  a  short  colloquy  with  the  men, 
he  and  Price  drove  back  to  Council  Oaks. 

Price  left  the  next  morning.  His  presence  was  neces- 
sary in  the  city,  he  said,  and  he  seemed  preoccupied 
and  anxious  to  go.  He  hinted  at  forthcoming  revela- 
tions which  would  clear  up  what  was  still  unexplained, 
but  declared  himself  unable  at  present  to  say  more. 

When  he  had  gone,  Ferguson  walked  to  Grasslands 
where  he  found  the  family  recuperating  in  a  relief  too 
deep  for  words.  Bebita  was  in  bed  still  asleep.  The 
doctor,  sent  for  the  night  before,  said  she  was  suffering 
from  the  effects  of  a  drug,  but  that  rest  and  quiet  would 
soon  restore  her. 

They  collected  on  the  balcony  to  hear  his  story. 
When  it  was  over,  questions  answered,  amazement  and 
horror  vented  in  various  forms,  Mr.  Janney  said  he 
would  like  to  walk  over  to  the  wharf  and  have  a  talk 
with  the  police  himself.  Ferguson  decided  to  go  with 
him ;  there  would  be  a  lot  of  business  to  be  gone  through, 
an  inquest  with  all  its  unpleasant  detail. 

As  they  rose  to  leave,  Suzanne  announced  that  she 
wanted  to  come  too.  She  looked  a  wreck,  in  her  hysteri- 

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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

cal  jubilation  forgetful  of  her  rouge  and  powder;  a 
worn  little  wraith  of  a  woman  whose  journey  to  the 
heart  of  life  had  stripped  her  of  all  coquetry  and  beauty. 
They  tried  to  dissuade  her,  but,  as  usual,  she  was  in- 
sistent; she  wanted  to  see  the  men  herself,  she  wanted 
to  hear  everything.  On  this  day  of  thanksgiving  no 
one  had  the  will  to  thwart  her,  so  they  accepted  with 
the  best  grace  they  could  and  she  walked  through  the 
woods  with  them. 

There  was  a  group  of  men  on  the  wharf,  the  local 
police,  the  coroner,  some  of  Ferguson's  emploj'ees.  The 
body  had  been  put  in  the  boathouse,  laid  on  a  table  un- 
der a  sheltering  tarpaulin.  Ferguson  and  Mr.  Jan- 
ney  drew  off  to  the  end  of  the  dock  in  low-toned  con- 
ference with  the  officials.  They  were  relieved  to  see 
that  Suzanne  had  no  mind  to  listen,  but  stayed  by  her- 
self in  the  shade  of  the  boathouse  wall. 

She  leaned  against  it,  looking  out  over  the  sparkling 
reaches  of  the  Sound.  Her  thoughts  were  of  the  dead 
man,  close  behind  her  there,  on  the  other  side  of  the 
wooden  partition.  She  wondered  with  an  awed  amaze 
at  his  wild  act  and  its  dark  ending.  She  wondered 
what  manner  of  man  he  was,  what  he  was  like  —  a  hu- 
man creature,  unknown  to  her,  who  could  want  only 
to  cause  her  such  anguish. 

She  shot  a  glance  over  her  shoulder  and  saw  that 
the  door  of  the  boathouse  was  half  open  —  the  coroner 

324 


The  Man  in  the  Boat 


had  been  in  and  had  neglected  to  close  it.  She  looked 
at  the  men  at  the  end  of  the  wharf ;  they  stood  in  a  little 
cluster,  backs  toward  her,  heads  together  in  animated 
discussion.  She  moved  from  the  wall,  advanced  on  tip- 
toe through  the  slant  of  shade,  and  slipped  through  the 
open  doorway. 

The  place  was  very  still,  its  clear,  varnished  brown- 
ness  impregnated  with  the  sea's  salty  tang,  through  its 
windows  the  golden  gleam  of  the  waves  reflected  in  rip- 
pling lights  that  chased  across  its  peaked  ceiling.  She 
stole  to  the  table  where  the  grim  shape  lay  and  lifted 
the  tarpaulin  with  a  trembling  hand.  The  other  shot 
suddenly  to  her  mouth,  strangling  a  scream,  and  she 
dropped  the  heavy  cloth  as  if  it  burned  her.  Both 
hands  went  up  over  her  face,  flattened  there  until  the 
nails  were  empurpled,  and  she  stood,  bent  as  if  cramped 
with  pain,  for  the  moment  all  movement  paralyzed. 

Ferguson,  informed  of  all  he  wanted  to  know,  turned 
from  the  others  to  join  her.  She  was  not  where  he  had 
left  her,  and  moving  down  the  wharf  he  looked  about 
and,  seeing  no  sign  of  her,  decided  that  she  had  gone 
home.  He  was  passing  the  boathouse  doorway  when 
she  came  through  it  almost  upon  him. 

"  Good  heavens !  "  he  said  angrily,  "  have  you  been 
in  there?  "  Then,  seeing  her  face,  he  caught  her  arm 
and  held  her.  Would  there  ever  be  an  end  to  her  will- 
fulness ! 

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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

"  Come  home,"  he  said,  sharply,  and  led  her  away. 
She  tottered  beside  him,  drooping  and  ghastly.  As 
they  crossed  the  road  to  the  path  up  the  bluff  he 
could  not  forbear  an  exasperated: 

"  What  in  the  name  of  common  sense  did  you  do  that 
for?  Didn't  you  know  it  was  not  a  thing  for  you  to 
see?" 

Her  hands  locked  on  his  arm ;  she  leaned  against  him 
lifting  a  haggard  glance  to  his  face.  Her  voice  was  a 
husky  whisper: 

"  It's  not  that,  Dick.  It  wasn't  just  the  dead  man. 
It  was  —  it  was  —  he  was  my  detective  —  Larkin !  " 


826 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

MISS   MAITLAND    EXPLAINS 

ON  Saturday  afternoon  several  telephone  mes- 
sages   were    sent    to    Esther    Maitland    at 
O'Malley's  flat.     They  came  from  Ferguson, 
from  Grasslands,  and  the  Whitney  office.     In  the  two 
latter  cases  they  were  conciliatory  and  apologetic  and 
asked  that  Miss  Maitland  would  see  the  senders  and 
explain  the  circumstances   that  had  so  strangely  in- 
volved her  in  the  case. 

To  both  her  employers  and  the  Whitneys  Miss  Mait- 
land returned  an  evasive  answer.  She  would  be  happy 
to  do  as  they  asked,  but  would  have  to  let  a  few  more 
days  pass  before  she  would  be  free  to  speak.  Mean- 
time she  would  remain  with  Mrs.  O'Malley,  who  had 
offered  to  keep  her,  and  who  had  treated  her  with  the 
utmost  kindness  and  consideration.  One  request  she 
made  —  this  to  the  Whitneys  —  she  would  like  Chap- 
man Price  to  be  advised  of  her  whereabouts.  It  would 
be  necessary  for  her  to  communicate  with  him  before 
she  would  be  able  to  explain  her  share  in  the  mystery. 
Ferguson's  message  had  been  an  importunate  demand 
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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

to  let  him  come  to  her.  She  refused,  said  she  would 
see  no  one  until  she  was  at  liberty  to  clear  herself, 
which  would  not  be  for  some  days  yet.  Her  voice 
showed  a  tremulous  urgency,  a  note  of  pleading,  new  to 
his  ears  and  infinitely  sweet.  But  he  could  not  break 
down  her  resolution ;  she  begged  him  to  do  as  she  asked, 
not  to  seek  her  out,  not  to  demand  any  explanations 
until  she  was  ready  to  give  them.  The  one  favor  she 
granted  him  was  that  when  the  time  was  up  and  she 
could  break  her  silence,  he  could  come  for  her. 

This  did  not  happen  until  Wednesday.  That  morn- 
ing she  'phoned  to  them  all  that  she  could  now  see  them 
and  tell  them  what  they  wanted  to  hear.  A  meeting 
was  arranged  at  the  Whitney  office  for  three  that  after- 
noon and  Ferguson  went  to  fetch  her. 

They  met  in  Mrs.  O'Malley's  front  parlor,  consider- 
ately vacated  and  with  the  folding  doors  closed  against 
intrusion.  Without  greeting  Ferguson  took  her  hands 
and  held  them,  looking  down  into  her  face.  She  was 
beaming,  her  cheeks  flushed,  her  eyes  shy.  She  began 
to  say  something  about  being  at  last  able  to  vindicate 
herself,  but  he  cut  her  off : 

"  Before  you  go  into  that,  I  want  to  say  something 
to  you." 

"  No,  that's  not  fair ;  I  must  speak  first  and  you 
must  let  me.  It's  my  privilege." 

"  With  the  others  maybe,  but  not  with  me.  What  I 
328 


Miss  Maitland  Explains 


have  to  say  has  to  be  said  before  I  hear.  Esther,  do 
you  know  what  it  is  ?  " 

She  was  silent,  her  head  drooping,  her  hands  growing 
cold  in  his  grasp.  He  went  on,  very  quietly  and  simply : 

"  It's  that  I  ask  you  to  be  my  wife.  And  I  must  ask 
it  before  the  clearing  or  vindicating  or  any  rubbish 
of  that  sort.  I  don't  know  what  you'll  say  to  it  and  I 
don't  want  any  answer  now.  That's  at  your  own  good 
time  and  your  own  good  pleasure.  It's  just  that  I 
wanted  you  to  see  how  I  stand  and  have  stood  since 
that  night  when  we  walked  through  the  woods  together. 
Come  along  now  —  it's  nearly  three,  and  we  mustn't 
keep  them  waiting." 

It  was  a  very  different  Esther  who  sat  in  Wilbur 
Whitney's  private  office,  facing  those  who  had  once 
been  her  accusers.  She  gave  no  evidence  of  rancor, 
greeted  them  with  a  frank  friendliness,  smiled  with  a 
radiance  they  set  down  to  the  rebound  from  long  ten- 
sion and  strain.  Suzanne,  her  jealous  fires  burned  out, 
could  acknowledge  now  that  she  was  handsome;  Mr. 
Janncy  wondered  at  her  look  of  breeding.  "  A  fine 
girl,"  old  Whitney  thought,  as  he  studied  her  through 
his  glasses,  "  spirited  and  high-mettled  as  a  racer." 

"  It's  a  long  story,"  she  said,  "  and  for  you  to  under- 
stand it  I'll  have  to  go  back  to  a  time  when  none  of 
you  had  ever  heard  of  me.  And  before  I  begin,  I  want 
to  say  to  Mrs.  Janney,"  she  turned  to  the  older  woman 

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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

eagerly  earnest,  "  if  I  had  understood  people  better,  if 
I  hadn't  been  hardened  and  made  suspicious  by  the 
struggle  I'd  had,  I  would  have  trusted  you  and  told  you 
more,  and  all  this  misery  would  have  been  averted.  So, 
in  a  way  it  was  my  fault,  and  being  such  I've  suffered 
for  it. 

"  I  have  a  half-sister,  Florence  Jackson,  nine  years 
younger  than  I  am;  that  would  make  her  eighteen. 
When  my  stepfather  died,  ten  years  ago,  he  left  us  pen- 
niless and  I  had  to  start  in  at  once  to  make  our  bread. 
I  boarded  Florry  out  with  friends  and  found  a  position 
as  a  school  teacher.  That  was  only  for  a  year  or  two ; 
soon  I  advanced  into  the  secretarial  work  which  was  less 
fatiguing  and  better  paying.  In  the  first  place  I  got, 
Florry  was  living  near  me  and  on  Sundays  she  used  to 
come  and  see  me.  My  employer  didn't  like  it  —  did  not 
want  a  strange  child  about  the  house  and  told  me  so 
without  mincing  words.  I  was  angry  —  J  was  hot- 
tempered  and  sensitive  in  those  days  and  I  made  a  vow 
to  keep  my  life  to  myself,  be  nothing  to  my  employers 
but  a  machine  who  rendered  certain  services  for  a  cer- 
tain wage.  When  I  came  to  you,  Mrs.  Janney,  I  should 
have  seen  that  I  was  with  some  one  who  was  big-hearted 
and  generous,  but  I  had  been  molded  and  the  mold  had 
set  in  a  hard  and  bitter  shape. 

"  Earning  more  money  I  was  able  to  put  Florry  in 
good  schools.  It  was  my  intention  to  give  her  a  fine 

330 


Miss  Maitland  Explains 


education,  and  equip  her  for  the  task  of  earning  her 
living.  She  was  quick  and  clever,  but  willful  and  hard 
to  control.  I  suppose  it  was  because  she  had  had  no 
home  influences,  no  place  that  belonged  to  her.  She  had 
to  spend  her  vacations  anywhere  —  sometimes  at  the 
school,  sometimes  with  classmates.  It  was  a  miserable 
life  for  a  child. 

"  She  was  always  pretty  —  when  she  was  little  people 
used  to  stop  on  the  streets  to  look  at  her  —  and  as  she 
grew  older  she  grew  prettier.  She  was  charming,  too, 
there  was  something  about  her  very  willfulness  that  was 
captivating.  The  combination  worried  me ;  if  she  had 
had  more  balance,  been  more  reasonable,  it  wouldn't 
have  mattered.  But  she  was  the  kind  who  is  always  full 
of  wild  enthusiasms,  going  off  at  a  tangent  about  this, 
that  and  the  other.  Not  a  promising  temperament  for 
a  girl  who  has  to  support  herself. 

"  A  year  ago  I  got  her  into  a  first  class  school  near 
Chicago  —  I  had  met  the  principal,  who  had  been  very 
kind  and  taken  her  at  a  greatly  reduced  rate.  It  was 
to  be  her  last  year ;  in  June  she  would  graduate  and  with 
her  education  finished,  I  felt  sure  I  could  get  her  a 
position  in  New  York  where  I  could  help  her  and  watch 
over  her.  During  the  winter  —  last  winter  —  her  let- 
ters made  me  uneasy.  She  was  discontented,  tired  of 
study,  wanted  to  be  out  in  the  world  doing  something. 

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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

I  was  prepared  for  a  struggle  with  her,  but  not  for  what 
happened. 

"  One  day  —  it  was  in  March  —  I  had  a  letter  from 
her  saying  she  had  run  away  from  school,  was  in  New 
York  and  was  looking  for  a  job.  I  was  angry  and 
bitterly  disappointed,  also  I  was  frightened  —  Florry 
in  New  York  without  a  cent,  with  no  one  to  be  with 
her,  with  no  home  or  companion.  I  went  to  the  address 
she  gave  me  and  found  her  in  the  hall  bedroom  of  a  third 
rate  boarding  house  —  a  woman  on  the  train  had  told 
her  of  it  —  full  of  high  spirits  and  a  sort  of  childish 
joy  at  being  free.  She  did  not  understand  my  disap- 
pointment, laughed  at  my  fears.  I  lost  my  temper, 
said  more  than  I  ought  —  and  —  well,  we  had  a  quarrel, 
the  first  real  one  we  ever  had. 

"  That  night  I  couldn't  sleep,  blaming  myself,  know- 
ing that  whatever  she  did  it  was  my  duty  to  stand  by 
her.  The  next  day  I  went  to  the  place  and  found  she'd 
gone,  leaving  no  address.  For  three  days  I  heard  noth- 
ing from  her  and  was  on  the  verge  of  going  to  you,  Mrs. 
Janney,  and  imploring  your  aid  and  advice,  when  a  let- 
ter came.  She  was  all  right,  she  had  found  paying 
employment,  she  was  independent  at  last.  In  my  first 
spare  hour  I  went  to  her  and  found  her  in  another 
boarding  house,  a  cheap,  shabby  place,  but  decent.  A 
good  many  working  women  lived  there,  the  better  paid 
shop  girls  and  heads  of  departments.  It  was  through 

332 


Miss  Maitland  Explains 


one  of  these,  a  fitter,  at  Camille's,  that  she  had  got 
work.  With  her  beauty  it  had  been  easy  —  she  had 
been  employed  as  a  model  at  Camille's." 

"  Camille's !  "  the  word  came  on  a  startled  note  from 
Suzanne.  Esther  turned  to  her : 

"  Yes,  Mrs.  Price,  and  you  saw  her  there  —  you  or- 
dered a  dress  from  a  model  that  Florry  wore." 

"  The  girl  with  the  reddish  hair  —  the  tall  girl?  " 

"  Yes,  that  was  Florry.  She  told  me  afterward  how 
she  walked  up  and  down  in  front  of  you." 

"  But  — "  Suzanne's  voice  showed  an  incredulous 
wonder,  "  she  was  beautiful ;  they  were  all  talking  about 
her." 

"  I  said  she  was  —  I  was  not  exaggerating.  She  was 
satisfied  with  her  work,  liked  it,  I  think  she  would  have 
liked  anything  that  was  novel  and  took  her  away  from 
the  grind  of  study.  /  didn't  like  it,  but  at  least  it 
wasn't  the  stage,  and  I  set  about  trying  to  find  some- 
thing better.  That  was  the  situation  till  April  and 
then  — "  She  paused,  her  eyes  dropped  to  the  floor. 
The  color  suddenly  rose  in  her  face  and  raising  them  she 
shot  a  look  at  Ferguson.  He  answered  it  with  a  slight, 
almost  imperceptible  nod  and  smiled  in  open  encourage- 
ment. She  took  a  deep  breath  and  addressed  Mrs. 
Janney : 

"  What  I  have  to  tell  now  isn't  pleasant  for  me  to 
say  or  for  you  to  hear,  but  I  have  to  tell  it  for  all  the 

333 


Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

subsequent  events  grew  from  it.  Mr.  Price  had  been 
to  Camille's  that  first  time  with  his  wife." 

There  was  a  slight  stir  in  the  listening  company,  a 
sudden  focusing  of  intent  eyes  on  the  girl,  a  waiting 
expectancy  in  the  grave  faces.  She  saw  it  and  an- 
swered it: 

"  Yes,  he  saw  Florry.  He  went  again  —  Mrs.  Price 
was  buying  several  dresses.  After  that  second  visit  he 
waited  one  night  at  the  side  door  used  for  employees 
and  spoke  to  her.  I  can't  condone  what  she  did,  but  I 
can  say  in  extenuation  that  she  was  very  young,  very 
inexperienced,  that  she  knew  who  Mr.  Price  was,  and 
that  she  had  never  in  her  life  met  a  man  of  his  attrac- 
tions. 

"  She  didn't  hide  it  from  me,  was  frank  and  out- 
spoken about  the  meeting  and  his  subsequent  attentions. 
For  he  saw  her  often  after  that,  took  her  for  walks  on 
Sunday,  sent  her  theater  tickets  and  books.  I  was 
filled  with  anxiety,  besought  of  her  to  give  it  up,  but 
she  wouldn't,  she  couldn't.  Before  I  went  to  Grasslands 
I  realized  a  situation  was  developing  that  made  me  sick 
with  apprehension.  She  was  in  love,  madly  in  love.  I 
couldn't  reason  with  her,  I  couldn't  make  her  listen  to 
me;  she  was  blind  and  deaf  to  anything  but  him  and 
what  he  said. 

"  I  went  to  Mr.  Price  and  implored  him  to  leave  her 
alone.  I  had  to  catch  him  as  I  could  —  in  the  halls,  at 

334- 


Miss  Maitland  Explains 


odd  moments  in  the  library,  for  he  hated  the  scenes  I 
made  and  tried  to  avoid  me.  He  assured  me  that  he 
meant  no  harm,  that  her  position  was  hard  and  he  was 
sorry  for  her.  I  threatened  to  tell  Mrs.  Janney,  and 
he  said  I  could  if  I  wanted,  that  he  would  soon  be  done 
with  them  all  and  didn't  care.  I  saw  then  that  he 
too,  like  Florry,  was  growing  indifferent  to  everything 
but  the  hours  when  they  were  together  —  that  lie  was  in 
love. 

"  That  was  the  situation  when  I  went  to  Grasslands. 
It  was  much  worse  there  —  I  couldn't  see  her  often,  I 
was  in  ignorance  of  how  things  were  going  with  her, 
for  her  letters  told  me  little.  It  was  unbearable,  and 
I  went  into  town  whenever  I  could;  all  the  extra  holi- 
days were  asked  for  so  that  I  could  go  into  the  city  and 
see  how  Florry  was  getting  on.  On  one  of  these  visits 
she  told  me  something  that,  at  the  time,  I  paid  little 
attention  to,  setting  it  down  as  one  of  her  passing 
fancies ;  she  was  interested  in  the  working  girls'  unions. 
At  Camille's  and  in  the  boarding  house  she  had  fallen  in 
with  a  group  of  girls  of  Socialistic  beliefs  and,  through 
them,  had  met  their  organizers  and  backers.  She  was 
much  more  deeply  involved  than  I  guessed.  Her  fear- 
lessness, her  ardor  for  anything  new  and  exciting, 
making  her  a  valuable  addition  to  their  ranks.  It  car- 
ried her  far,  to  the  edge  of  tragedy." 

She  turned  to  Mr.  Janney: 
335 


Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

"  Do  you  remember,  Mr.  Janney,  one  morning  early 
in  July,  how  I  read  you  an  account  of  a  strike  riot 
among  the  shirtwaist  makers  when  one  of  the  girls 
stabbed  a  policeman  with  a  hatpin?  " 

The  old  man  nodded : 

"  Yes,  vaguely.  I  have  a  dim  memory  of  arguing 
about  it  with  you." 

"  That  was  the  time.  Well,  that  girl  was  Florry. 
She  lost  her  head  completely,  stabbed  the  man,  and  in 
the  tumult  that  followed,  managed  to  get  away  through 
the  hall  of  a  tenement  house.  She  was  hidden  by 
friends  of  hers,  Russian  socialists  called  Rychlovsky.  I 
have  met  them ;  they  seem  decent,  kindly  people,  and 
they  certainly  were  very  good  to  her.  When  I  read 
you  the  article  I  had  no  more  idea  that  the  girl  was 
Florry  than  you  had.  It  was  not  until  the  next  morn- 
ing that  I  received  a  letter  from  her,  telling  me  what 
she  had  done  and  where  she  was. 

"  She  wrote  two  letters,  one  to  me  and  one  to  Mr. 
Price.  He  had  told  her  that  he  would  spend  his  week- 
ends with  the  Hartleys  at  Cedar  Brook  and  she  sent 
his  there.  Mine  was  delivered  on  the  morning  of  July 
the  seventh  but  he  did  not  get  his  until  the  same  evening 
when  he  came  to  Cedar  Brook  from  the  city.  Each  of 
us  acted  as  promptly  as  we  could,  but  he  went  to  her 
before  I  did,  going  in  that  night  in  his  car. 

"  It  seems  incredible  that  he  should  have  done  what 
336 


Miss  Maitland  Explains 


he  did,  dared  to  take  such  a  risk.  But  when  he  found 
her  cooped  up  in  the  rear  room  of  a  tenement,  lonely 
and  frightened,  he  prevailed  on  her  to  go  out  with  him 
in  his  motor.  He  took  her  for  a  drive  far  up  the  Hud- 
son, not  returning  until  after  midnight.  The  Rych- 
lovskys,  who  had  missed  her  and  were  in  a  state  of 
alarm,  were  furious.  When  I  went  there  the  next  day 
they  were  vociferous  in  their  desire  to  be  rid  of  her,  say- 
ing she  would  land  them  all  in  jail.  I  was  her  sister;  it 
was  up  to  me,  I  must  find  another  lair  for  her. 

"  I  had  heard  of  the  house  in  Gayle  Street  from  two 
girls,  art  students,  who  had  once  lived  there.  It  was 
the  only  place  I  could  think  of ;  and  when  I  found  that 
the  top  floor  was  vacant,  I  realized  that  she  could  be 
hidden  in  one  of  the  rooms  and  no  one  suspect  it  was 
occupied.  I  engaged  it  and  paid  the  rent,  telling  the 
janitor  the  story  of  a  friend  coming  from  the  West. 
Then  I  took  the  key  back  to  Florry.  The  Rychlovskys, 
pacified  by  the  thought  that  she  would  be  out  of  their 
house,  undertook  to  furnish  her  with  food.  They  made 
her  promise  that  she  would  keep  to  the  room,  light  no 
gas  at  night,  make  no  noise,  and  stay  away  from  the 
window.  Florry  was  by  this  time  thoroughly  cowed 
and  agreed  to  everything.  It  was  through  their  adroit- 
ness that  the  room  passed  as  vacant.  They  visited  her 
in  the  evening,  a  time  when  many  people  came  and  went 
in  the  house,  bringing  in  her  food  and  carrying  away 

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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

what  was  left  in  newspapers.  They  had  two  extra  keys 
made,  one  for  me,  one  for  Mr.  Price.  I  brought  her 
money,  Mr.  Price  books  and  magazines.  He  saw  her 
oftener  than  I  did,  and  gave  me  news  of  her.  This  I 
asked  him  to  do  by  letter.  I  had  once  met  him  by  Little 
Fresh  Pond,  and  another  time  he  had  telephoned.  I 
was  afraid  of  repeating  the  meeting  at  the  pond  —  we 
had  both  come  upon  Miss  Rogers  and  Bebita  on  the  way 
out  —  and  I  dreaded  being  overheard  at  the  'phone. 

"  All  went  well  for  two  weeks,  though  we  were  terribly 
frightened,  for  the  policeman  developed  blood-poisoning, 
and  for  some  time  hung  between  life  and  death.  Then 
the  Rychlovskys  suggested  a  plan  that  seemed  to  me 
the  only  way  out  of  our  dangers  and  difficulties.  A 
friend  of  theirs,  a  woman  doctor,  was  one  of  a  hospital 
unit  sailing  from  Montreal  to  France.  This  woman, 
allied  with  them  in  their  Socialistic  activities,  agreed 
to  get  Florry  into  her  group  as  a  hospital  attendant, 
take  her  to  France  and  look  after  her.  It  struck  us  all 
as  feasible  and  as  lacking  in  danger  as  any  plan  for  her 
removal  could  be.  The  doctor  was  a  woman  of  high 
character  who  told  the  Rychlovskys  she  would  keep 
Florry  near  her  as  the  unit  was  shorthanded  and 
needed  all  the  workers  it  could  get.  The  one  person 
who  showed  no  enthusiasm  was  Florry  herself.  I  knew 
perfectly  what  was  the  matter  —  she  did  not  want  to 
leave  Chapman  Price.  He  tried  to  persuade  her,  was  as 

838 


Miss  Maitland  Explains 


worried  and  anxious  as  I  was.  The  situation  between 
them  had  cleared  to  a  definite  understanding  —  when 
his  wife  had  obtained  her  divorce  he  would  go  to  France 
and  marry  Florry  there. 

"  And  now  I  come  to  the  day  of  the  kidnaping,  that 
dreadful,  unforgettable  day ! 

"  The  morning  before  —  Thursday  —  I  had  seen  her 
and  found  her  in  a  state  of  nervous  indecision,  weeping 
and  miserable.  I  knew  I  was  to  be  in  town  with  Mrs. 
Price  the  next  day  and  told  her  if  I  could  get  time  I 
would  come  to  her.  Mrs.  Price  had  told  me  how  we  were 
to  divide  the  errands  and  I  realized,  if  I  could  finish 
mine  earlier  than  she  expected,  I  would  have  a  chance  of 
seeing  Florry.  I  had  just  been  paid  my  salary  and 
that,  with  some  money  I  had  saved,  I  brought  with  me. 
My  intention  was  to  give  all  this  to  Florry  and  implore 
her  to  go  with  the  hospital  unit,  which  was  scheduled  to 
leave  Montreal  early  the  following  week. 

"  Things  worked  out  as  I  had  hoped.  The  commis- 
sions took  less  time  than  Mrs.  Price  had  calculated  and 
I  found  that  I  would  be  able  to  spend  a  few  minutes 
with  Florry.  In  case  Bebita  should  mention  the  excur- 
sion downtown,  I  ordered  the  driver  to  drop  me  at  a 
bookbindery  on  the  corner  of  Gale  Street.  I  could 
easily  explain  our  stop  there  by  saying  that  I  had  left 
a  book  to  be  bound. 

"  When  I  reached  the  room  I  found  her  in  a  state  of 
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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

hysterical  terror  —  she  said  the  house  was  watched. 
Peeping  out  through  the  coarse  lace  curtains  that  veiled 
the  window,  she  had  several  times  noticed  a  man  loung- 
ing about  the  corner.  At  first  she  had  thought  nothing 
of  him,  but  the  day  before  he  had  reappeared,  and 
stayed  about  the  block  most  of  the  afternoon  covertly 
watching  the  entrance  and  the  upper  floor.  I  was 
nearly  as  frightened  as  she  was  —  the  thing  was  only 
too  probable.  There  was  no  difficulty  in  getting  her 
to  go  with  the  hospital  ship.  She  had  only  stayed  on  in 
the  hope  of  seeing  me  and  having  me  tell  her  what  to  do. 

"  I  gave  her  the  money  and  told  her  to  wait  until 
nightfall  and  then  slip  out  and  go  to  the  Rychlovskys. 
They  had  promised  to  help  her  in  any  way  they  could, 
and  with  Bebita  waiting  in  the  cab,  I  couldn't  go  with 
her.  It  was  a  simply  hideous  position  to  have  to  leave 
her  that  way.  But  it  was  all  I  could  think  of  —  it  came 
so  unexpectedly  I  was  stunned  by  it. 

"  When  I  reached  the  bookbindery  the  taxi  was  gone ! 
Can  you  imagine  what  I  felt?  I  told  the  truth  when  I 
said  my  first  thought  was  that  Bebita  might  have  played 
a  joke  on  me.  I  did  think  that,  for  my  mind,  confused 
and  crowded  with  deadly  fears,  could  not  take  in  a  new 
catastrophe.  Then,  when  I  saw  Mrs.  Price  and  real- 
ized that  the  child  had  mysteriously  disappeared,  while 
with  me,  while  in  my  charge  —  I  —  well,  I  hope  I'll  never 
have  to  live  over  moments  like  those  again.  I  had  to 

340 


Miss  Maitland  Explains 


keep  one  fact  before  my  mind  —  to  be  quiet,  to  be  cool, 
not  to  do  or  say  anything  that  might  betray  Florry. 
If  I'd  known  what  you  suspected,  I  couldn't  have  done  it. 
But,  of  course,  I  hadn't  any  idea  then  you  thought  I 
was  implicated. 

"  Florry  had  told  me  she  would  communicate  with 
Mr.  Price  and  he  would  give  me  word  of  her.  The  tele- 
phone message  that  Miss  Rogers  tapped  was  that  word ; 
all  I  received.  It  relieved  me  immensely,  I  began  to  feel 
the  dreadful  strain  relaxing,  I  began  to  think  we  were 
on  the  high  road  to  safety.  And  then  came  that  day 
here  in  the  office.  Shall  I  ever  forget  it !  " 

She  turned  to  Mrs.  Janney : 

"  If  I  had  had  the  least  idea  of  what  was  going  to  be 
done  here,  I  would  have  tried  to  get  to  you  and  have 
thrown  myself  on  your  mercy.  But  I  was  completely 
unsuspecting  and  unprepared,  and  with  Mr.  Whitney 
as  the  judge,  representing  the  law,  I  did  not  dare  to 
tell  the  truth,  I  had  to  lie. 

"  As  you  saw,  I  lied  as  well  as  I  could,  puzzled  at  first, 
not  knowing  what  you  were  getting  at,  to  what  point  it 
was  all  leading.  Then,  when  you  caught  me  with  the 
tapped  message,  I  saw  —  I  guessed  how  circumstances 
had  woven  a  net  about  me.  I  realized  there  was  nothing 
to  be  done  but  let  you  believe  it,  let  you  do  what  you 
wanted  with  me.  You  couldn't  make  me  speak,  and  if 
I  could  stay  silent  till  Florry  was  in  Europe,  hidden,  lost 

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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

in  the  chaos  of  a  country  at  war,  it  would  be  all  right." 

She  swept  their  faces  with  a  glance,  half  pleading, 
half  triumphant. 

"  She  is  there  now  —  this  morning  Mr.  Price  had  a 
cable  from  her.  I  have  told  this  to  Mr.  Whitney  as 
well  as  the  rest  because  I  have  thought  —  shut  up  in 
O'Malley's  flat  I  had  much  time  for  thinking  things 
out  straight  and  clear  —  that  after  my  explanation,  no 
one  would  want,  no  one  would  dare,  to  bring  that  un- 
fortunate girl  back  here  to  face  a  criminal  charge. 
She  has  had  her  lesson,  she  will  never  forget  it,  the  man 
she  wounded  is  back  on  the  force  as  good  as  ever.  No 
human  being  with  a  conscience  and  a  heart  — "  she- 
looked  at  Whitney  — "  and  you  have  both  —  could  want 
to  make  her  pay  more  bitterly  than  she  has.  She  is  safe, 
under  intelligent  supervision.  She  can  work,  be  useful, 
where  her  youth  and  strength  and  enthusiasm  are 
needed.  I  did  not  trust  you  before,  Mr.  Whitney,  but 
I  do  now  and  I  know  that  my  trust  is  not  misplaced." 

A  murmur,  a  concerted  sound  of  agreement,  came 
from  her  listeners.  Whitney,  pushing  his  chair  back 
from  the  desk,  said  gravely: 

"  You  can  rest  assured,  Miss  Maitland,  that  the  mat- 
ter will  die  here  with  us  to-day.  As  you  say,  your 
sister  has  had  her  punishment.  She  will  stay  in  France 
of  course?  " 

**  Yes,  make  her  home  there,  I  think.  When  Mr. 
342 


Miss  Maitland  Explains 


Price  is  free  he  is  to  go  over  and  marry  her.  He  intends 
to  sell  his  business  out  and  offer  his  services  to  the 
French  government." 

There  was  a  moment  of  silence,  then  Mrs.  Janney 
spoke,  clearing  her  throat,  her  face  flushed  with  feel- 
ing: 

"  As  you've  said,  Miss  Maitland,  none  of  this  would 
have  happened  if  you'd  seen  fit  to  come  to  me.  But  it's 
no  use  going  over  that  now  —  we've  all  made  mistakes 
and  we're  all  sorry.  What  we  —  the  Janneys  —  want 
to  do  is  to  be  fair,  to  be  just,  and  now  —  if  it  is  not  too 
late  —  to  make  amends.  The  only  way  you  can  show 
your  willingness  to  forget  and  forgive,  is  to  come  back 
at  once  to  Grasslands  and  take  things  up  where  you  left 
them." 

The  girl  for  a  moment  did  not  answer,  her  face  red- 
dening with  a  sudden  embarrassment.  Mrs.  Janney 
saw  the  blush,  read  it  as  reluctance  and  exclaimed: 

"  Oh,  Miss  Maitland,  don't  say  you  refuse.  It's  as 
if  you  wouldn't  take  my  hand  held  out  in  apology,  in 
friendship." 

"  No,  no  " —  Esther  was  obviously  distressed  — 
"  don't  think  that,  Mrs.  Janney,  it's  not  that.  It's  that 
I  can't  —  I've  —  I've  made  another  engagement  —  I'm 
going  to  marry  Mr.  Ferguson." 


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CHAPTER  XXX 

MOLLY'S  STORY 

IT'S  my  place  to  finish,  tell  the  end  of  the  story  and 
straighten  it  all  out.     Some  of  it's  been  cleared 
up  clean,  with  the  people  on  the  spot  to  give  the 
evidence,  some  of  it  we  had  to  work  out  from  what  we 
knew  and  what  we  guessed.     Willitts,  who  was  a  gamy 
guy,  told  his  tale  from  start  to  finish,  and  loved  doing  it, 
they  said,  like  an  actor  who'd  rather  be  dead  in  the 
spotlight  than  alive  in  the  wings.     Larkin's  part  we 
had  to  put  together  from  what  we  could  get  from  Bebita 
and  what  Mrs.  Price  gave  up. 

Bebita,  the  way  children  do,  saw  plain  and  could  tell 
what  she  saw  as  accurate  as  a  phonograph.  It  made 
tears  come  to  hear  the  dear  little  thing,  so  sweet  and 
innocent,  making  us  see  that  even  the  crooks  she  was 
with  couldn't  help  but  love  her. 

When  Miss  Maitland  got  out  of  the  taxi  at  the  book- 
bindery  the  driver  told  the  child  that  he  knew  her  Daddy 
and  could  take  her  round  to  see  him  while  Miss  Mait- 
land was  in  the  store.  He  said  it  wouldn't  take  long, 
that  Mr.  Price  was  close  by,  and  they  would  come  back 

344 


Molly's  Story 


in  a  few  minutes  and  pick  up  Miss  Maitland.  Bebita 
was  crazy  to  go,  and  he  started,  giving  her  a  box  of 
chocolates  to  eat  on  the  way.  Of  course  she  never  could 
tell  where  he  went  but  it  could  not  have  been  a  long 
distance,  or  Larkin  —  we  all  were  agreed  that  he  drove 
the  cab  —  couldn't  have  reached  the  Fifth  Avenue  house 
as  soon  as  he  did.  The  place  was  evidently  a  flat  over  a 
garage.  He  told  her  her  father  was  waiting  there,  went 
upstairs  with  her,  and  gave  her  in  charge  of  a  woman 
called  Marion  who  opened  the  door  for  them. 

During  the  whole  time  she  was  gone  she  stayed  here 
with  Marion,  who  every  morning  assured  her  her  Daddy 
would  come  that  day.  She  said  Marion  was  very  good 
to  her,  gave  her  toys  and  candies,  cooked  her  meals  and 
played  games  with  her.  She  cried  often  and  was  home- 
sick, and  Marion  never  scolded  her  but  used  to  take  her 
in  her  arms  and  kiss  her  and  tell  her  stories.  She  never 
saw  the  man  again  until  he  came  to  take  her  away,  but 
sometimes  the  bell  rang  and  Marion  went  out  on  the 
stairs  and  talked  to  some  one. 

One  evening  Marion  said  she  was  going  home ;  it  would 
be  a  long  drive  and  she  must  be  a  good  girl.  .  Marion 
dressed  her  and  then  gave  her  a  glass  of  milk,  and 
kissed  her  a  great  many  times  and  cried.  Bebita  cried 
too,  for  she  was  sorry  to  leave  Marion,  but  she  wanted 
to  go  home.  After  that  the  man  came  and  took  her 
downstairs  to  the  taxi  and  told  her  to  be  very  quiet 

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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

and  she'd  soon  be  back  at  Grasslands.  It  was  dark 
and  they  went  through  the  city  and  then  she  got  very 
sleepy  and  laid  down  on  the  seat. 

No  trace  of  Marion,  Larkin's  confederate,  could  be 
found,  and  in  fact  no  especial  effort  was  made  to  do  so. 
The  man  was  dead,  the  woman,  who  had  evidently 
treated  the  child  with  affectionate  care,  had  fled  into  the 
darkness  where  she  belonged.  The  family,  even  Mrs. 
Janney,  was  contented  to  let  things  drop  and  make 
an  end. 

When  it  came  to  Larkin  we  had  to  piece  out  a  good 
deal.  We  agreed  that  he  had  started  in  fair  and  hon- 
est, had  tried  to  make  good  and  had  failed.  At  just 
what  point  he  changed  we  couldn't  be  sure,  but  Fergu- 
son thought  it  was  after  Mrs.  Price  threatened  to  end 
the  investigation.  Then  he  realized  that  his  big  chance 
was  slipping  by,  determined  to  get  something  out  of  it, 
and  hit  on  the  kidnaping.  It  was  easy  to  see  how  he 
could  worm  all  the  data  he  wanted  out  of  Mrs.  Price. 
From  what  she  said  he'd  evidently  pumped  her  at  their 
last  meeting  in  town,  finding  out  just  what  her  plans 
were,  even  to  the  fact  that  she  intended  taking  the  extra 
cab  from  the  rank  round  the  corner.  /  thought  that 
one  thing  might  have  given  him  the  whole  idea. 

When  they  stopped  at  the  book  bindery  he  heard  Miss 
Maitland  tell  Bebita  she  would  be  gone  a  few  minutes 
and  knew  that  was  his  opportunity.  He  took  the  child 

346 


Molly's  Story 


to  the  place  he  had  ready  for  her,  made  a  quick  change 
—  not  more  than  the  shedding  of  his  coat,  cap  and 
goggles  —  and  ran  his  car  into  the  garage  below,  which 
of  course  he  must  have  rented.  Then  he  lit  out  for 
the  Fifth  Avenue  house,  a  bit  late  but  ready  to  report 
in  case  Miss  Maitland  didn't  show  up  before  him.  Miss 
Maitland  did  —  he  must  have  seen  her  go  in  —  but  he 
rang  just  the  same,  which  showed  what  a  cunning  devil 
he  was. 

He  must  have  been  surprised  when  he  didn't  see  any- 
thing in  the  papers,  but  after  he'd  written  the  first 
"  Clansmen  "  letter  to  Mrs.  Price  she  explained  that 
and  it  made  it  smoother  sailing  for  him.  Knowing  her 
as  well  as  he  did,  he  planned  the  letters  to  scare  her 
into  silence,  and  saw  before  he  was  through  he  had  her 
exactly  in  the  state  he  wanted.  The  one  place  where  his 
plot  was  weak  was  that  an  outsider  had  to  drive  the 
rescue  car.  But  he  had  to  take  a  chance  somewhere, 
and  this  was  the  best  place.  He'd  fixed  it  so  neat  that 
even  if  the  outsider  had  informed  on  him,  he'd  have  been 
wary,  and,  as  Ferguson  thought,  not  shown  up  at  all. 

He'd  done  it  well;  as  well,  we  all  agreed,  as  it  could 
be  done.  What  had  beaten  him  had  been  no  man's 
cleverness,  just  something  that  neither  he,  nor  you,  nor 
any  of  us  could  have  foreseen.  Ain't  there  a  proverb 
about  the  best  laid  plans  of  mice  and  men  slipping  up 
when  you  least  expect  it?  It  was  like  the  hand  of  some- 

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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

thing,  that  reached  out  sudden  and  came  down  hard, 
laid  him  dead  in  the  moment  when  the  goal  was  in  sight. 

As  to  Willitts,  he  was  some  boy !  They  found  out 
that  he  was  wanted  in  England,  well-known  there  as  an 
expert  safe-cracker  and  notorious  jewel  thief.  That's 
where  he's  gone,  to  live  in  a  quiet  little  cell  which  will  be 
his  home  from  this  time  forth.  He  said  he  hadn't  been 
in  New  York  long  before  he  heard  of  the  Janney  jewels 
and  went  into  Mr.  Price's  service.  But  he  couldn't  do 
anything  while  the  family  were  in  town.  The  safe  was 
right  off  the  pantry  —  too  many  people  about  —  and 
anyway  it  was  a  new  one,  the  finest  kind,  that  would 
have  baffled  even  his  skill.  He  would  have  left  dis- 
couraged but  one  day  Dixon  let  drop  that  the  safe  at 
Grasslands  was  old-fashioned,  put  in  years  before  by 
the  former  owners,  so  he  stayed  on  devoted  and  faithful. 

At  Grasslands  he  had  lots  of  time  to  try  his  hand  on 
the  ancient  contraption  in  the  passage.  He  worked  on 
it  until  he  found  the  combination  and  then  he  lay  low 
for  his  opportunity.  When  the  row  came  and  Mr. 
Price  left,  he  stayed  on  .with  him.  It  was  the  best 
thing  to  do  as  he  could  run  in  and  out  from  Cedar 
Brook  seeing  the  servants,  with  whom  he  was  careful  to 
be  friendly. 

Before  this  he'd  got  wise  to  the  fact  that  something 
was  up  between  Miss  Maitland  and  Mr.  Price.  He  said 
it  was  his  business  to  snoop  and  his  profession  had 

348 


Molly's  Story 


got  him  into  the  way  of  doing  it  instinctive,  but  I'd 
set  it  down  as  coming  natural.  Anyway  he'd  found 
out  that  there  was  a  secret  between  them;  he'd  surprise 
them  murmuring  in  the  hallways  and  the  library,  quiet- 
ing down  quick  if  any  one  came  along.  He  made  the 
same  mistake  as  the  rest  of  us,  thought  it  was  an 
affair  of  the  heart  and  grew  mighty  curious  about  it. 
He  didn't  explain  why  he  was  interested,  but  if  you 
asked  me  I'd  say  he  had  blackmail  in  the  back  of  his 
head. 

On  the  afternoon  of  July  the  seventh  he  biked  down 
from  Cedar  Brook  to  take  a  look  round  and  see  how 
things  were  progressing.  Familiar  with  the  ways  of 
the  house,  he  knew  the  family  would  be  out  and  stole 
round  past  Miss  Maitland's  study.  No  one  was  there, 
and,  curious  as  he  was,  he  slipped  in  to  do  a  little 
spying  —  Miss  Maitland  and  Mr.  Price  separated 
would  be  writing  to  each  other  and  a  letter  might  throw 
some  light  on  the  darkness. 

He  rummaged  about  among  the  papers  but  found 
nothing.  Scattered  over  the  desk  were  bits  of  the 
trimming  Miss  Maitland  had  been  sewing  on ;  a  pile  of 
the  little  rosebuds  was  lying  on  the  top  of  her  work 
basket.  Reaching  over  toward  a  bunch  of  letters  he 
upset  the  basket,  and,  scared,  he  swept  up  the  con- 
tents with  his  handkerchief,  putting  them  back  as 
quick  as  he  could.  This  was  the  way  he  explained 

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the  presence  of  the  rose  in  the  safe.  He  was  shocked 
at  any  one  thinking  that  he  had  tried  to  throw  suspicion 
on  such  a  fine  young  lady.  That  night,  taking  the 
jewels,  hot  and  nervous,  his  glasses  had  blurred  the  way 
they  do  when  your  face  perspires.  He  had  whisked 
out  his  handkerchief  to  wipe  them,  and  no  doubt  a  rose- 
bud lodged  in  the  folds  had  fallen  to  the  ground.  Mr. 
Ferguson  didn't  believe  this  —  he  thought  the  rose  was 
a  plant  —  but  I  did.  It  was  one  of  those  queer,  un- 
expected things  that  will  happen  and  that,  for  me,  al- 
ways puts  a  crimp  in  circumstantial  evidence. 

After  that  he  went  round  to  the  kitchen  and  heard 
of  the  general  sortie  for  that  evening.  Then  he  knew 
the  time  had  come.  He  hiked  back  to  Cedar  Brook, 
saw  Mr.  Price,  and  went  to  his  lodgings.  Here  he 
found  his  landlady's  child  sick  with  croup  and  offered  to 
go  for  the  doctor,  whose  house  was  not  far  from 
Berkeley.  It  fitted  in  just  right,  for  if  there  was  any 
inquiry  into  his  movements  he  could  furnish  a  good 
reason  why  he  was  late  at  the  movies.  Before  he  got 
to  Grasslands  he  hid  his  wheel  by  the  roadside  and 
took  a  short  cut  through  the  woods,  lying  low  on  the 
edge  of  them  until  he  saw  the  kitchen  lights  go  out. 
Crossing  the  lawn,  the  dogs  ran  at  him  barking,  then 
got  his  scent  and  quieted  down.  At  the  balcony  he 
slipped  off  his  rain  coat,  put  on  sneakers,  unlocked  the 
front  door  with  Mr.  Price's  key,  and  crept  in.  The 

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job  didn't  take  him  ten  minutes;  just  as  he  finished 
he  saw  the  box  of  Mr.  Janney's  cigars  and  helped  him- 
self to  one.  He  rubbed  off  his  finger  prints  with  an 
acid  used  for  that  purpose,  left  the  broken  chair  just 
where  it  was  and  departed. 

In  the  woods  he  lit  the  cigar,  carelessly  throwing  the 
band  on  the  ground.  Fifteen  minutes  later  he  was  at 
the  movies  with  the  Grasslands  help.  When  he  saw  in 
the  papers  that  a  light  had  been  seen  by  the  safe  at 
one-thirty  every  fear  he  had  died,  for  at  that  time  he 
was  back  at  Cedar  Brook  helping  his  landlady  look 
after  the  sick  child. 

He  was  too  smart  a  crook  to  disappear  right  on 
top  of  the  robbery,  and  hung  around  saying  he  was 
looking  for  another  place.  He  met  up  with  Larkin 
but  at  first  didn't  know  he  was  a  detective.  When 
the  offer  came  from  Ferguson  he  took  it,  intending  to 
stay  a  while,  then  say  his  folks  in  the  old  country 
needed  him  and  slip  away  to  Spain.  It  was  the  day 
after  he'd  accepted  Ferguson's  offer  that  he  learned 
what  Larkin  was,  and  saw  that  both  he  and  the  Jan- 
neys  had  their  suspicions  of  Chapman  Price.  This 
disturbed  him,  but  he  couldn't  throw  up  the  job  he'd 
just  taken  without  exciting  remark.  To  be  ready, 
however,  he  dug  up  the  jewels — he'd  buried  them  in 
the  woods  —  and  put  them  handy  under  the  flooring  of 
his  room. 

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Miss  Maitland  Private  Secretary 

One  day,  looking  over  Ferguson's  things,  he  came 
on  the  cigar  band  in  the  box  on  the  bureau.  It  gave 
him  a  jar,  for  he  couldn't  see  why  it  was  put  there. 
He'd  heard  from  the  servants  about  Ferguson  and 
Miss  Maitland  walking  home  that  night  through  the 
woods  and  began  to  wonder  if  maybe  they'd  found  the 
band.  The  thought  ruffled  him  up  considerably,  and 
then  he  put  it  out  of  his  mind,  telling  himself  it  was  one 
from  a  cigar  Ferguson  had  brought  from  Grasslands 
and  smoked  in  his  room.  Nevertheless,  to  be  on  the 
safe  side,  he  threw  it  away,  very  much  on  the  alert,  as 
you  may  guess. 

It  wasn't  a  week  later  that  he  had  the  interview  with 
Ferguson  about  the  band.  Then  he  saw  by  the  young 
man's  manner  and  words  why  the  little  crushed  circle 
of  paper  had  a  meaning  of  its  own,  and  knew  that  the 
time  had  come  to  vanish.  He  still  felt  safe  enough 
to  do  this  without  haste,  not  rousing  any  suspicion  by 
a  too  sudden  departure.  His  opportunity  came  quickly 
- —  on  Friday  morning  he  heard  Ferguson  tell  the  butler 
that  he  was  going  to  town  and  would  be  away  for  a  day 
or  two ;  by  the  time  he  came  back  his  valet  would  be  far 
aSeld. 

Right  after  Ferguson's  departure  he  put  the  jewels 
in  a  bag,  and,  telling  the  butler  the  boss  had  given  him 
the  day  and  night  off,  prepared  to  leave.  He  was 
crossing  the  hall  when  the  telephone  rang  —  my  mes- 

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Molly's  Story 


sage  —  and  being  wary  of  danger,  answered  it.  It  was 
only  a  lady  asking  for  Mr.  Ferguson,  and,  calm  and 
steady  as  his  voice  had  made  me,  started  out  for 
the  station.  Mice  and  men  again !  —  I  was  the  mouse 
this  time.  Gracious,  what  a  battered  mouse  I  was ! 

Well  —  that's  all.  The  tangled  threads  are  straight- 
ened out  and  the  word  "  End  "  goes  at  the  bottom  of 
this  page.  I'm  glad  to  write  it,  glad  to  be  once  again 
where  you  can  say  what  you  think,  and  talk  to  people 
like  they  were  harmless  human  beings  without  any  dark 
secrets  in  their  pasts  or  presents,  and,  Oh,  Gee,  how 
glad  I  am  to  be  home !  Back  in  my  own  little  hole, 
back  where  there's  only  one  servant  and  she  a  coon,  back 
where  I'm  familiar  with  the  food  and  know  how  to  eat 
it,  and  blessedest  of  all,  back  to  my  own  true  husband, 
who  thinks  there's  no  sun  or  moon  or  stars  when  I'm 
out  of  the  house.  I'm  going  to  get  a  new  rug  for  the 
parlor,  a  fur-trimmed  winter  suit,  a  standing  lamp  with 
a  Chinese  shade,  a  pair  of  skates  —  oh,  dear,  I'm  at  the 
bottom  of  the  page  and  there's  no  room  for  "  End," 
but  I  must  squeeze  in  that  I  got  that  reward  —  Mrs. 
Janney  said  I'd  earned  every  penny  of  it  —  and  a  wrist 
watch  with  a  circle  of  diamonds  round  it  from  Dick 
Ferguson,  and  —  oh,  pshaw !  if  I  keep  on  I'll  never  stop, 
so  here  goes,  on  a  separate  line 

THE    END  Q\ 

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